The Ivory Tower
by Megii of Mysteri OusStranger
Summary: Voldemort was running across the fetid bedroom, his long white hands grasping the windowsill as he hurled himself over it and flew after the bald man and the little woman and then they were a tangle of bodies and limbs and they all twisted and vanished.
1. The Devil Himself

The Ivory Tower

_Summary_: Voldemort was running across the fetid bedroom, his long white hands clutching at the windowsill as he hurled himself over it and flew after the bald man and the little woman, and then they were a tangle of bodies and limbs, and they all twisted and vanished.

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_Notes_:

_This doesn't follow the typical "Hermione gets captured and Voldemort grows fond of her" plotline that I see most people using. It won't be long at all, and it will have a couple of nice twists I think you all will like. Though this will technically fall under the VoldemortHermione category, I hope I have presented it in a way that even those of you who do not ship the pairing will still find this story immensely enjoyable__._

_I tried very hard to imagine Ralph Fienne's Voldemort when writing Voldy's speech, so try to imagine his voice if you can; that slow, deliberate, breathy thing that he does ::shiver::._

_Warning: Violence, torture, and all-around scary situations. _

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_Original Scene_:

… Harry raised his wand, but as he did so, his scar seared more painfully, more powerfully than it had in years.

"He's coming! _Hermione, he's coming!"_

As he yelled the snake fell, hissing wildly. Everything was chaos: It smashed shelves from the wall, and splintered china flew everywhere as Harry jumped over the bed and seized the dark shape he knew to be Hermione—

She shrieked with pain as he pulled her back across the bed: The snake reared again, but Harry knew that worse than the snake was coming, was perhaps already at the gate, his head was going to split open with the pain from his scar—

The snake lunged as he took a running leap, dragging Hermione with him; as it struck, Hermione screamed, "_Confringo_!" and her spell flew around the room, exploding the wardrobe mirror and ricocheting back at them, bouncing from floor to ceiling; Harry felt the heat of it sear the back of his hand. Glass cut his cheek as, pulling Hermione with him, he leapt from the bed to broken dressing table and the straight out the smashed window into nothingness, her scream reverberating through the night as they twisted in midair…

And then his scar burst open and he was Voldemort and he was running across the fetid bedroom, his long white hands clutching at the windowsill as he glimpsed the bald man and the little woman twist and vanish, and he screamed in rage, a scream that mingled with the girl's, that echoed across the dark gardens over the church bells ringing in Christmas Day…

~ _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Chapter 17: Bathilda's Secret._

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_1. The Devil Himself_

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**Here is a small fact: You are going to die.** I am in all truthfulness attempting to be cheerful about this whole topic, though most people find themselves hindered in believing me, no matter my protestations. Please trust me. I most definitely _can_ be cheerful. I can be amiable. Agreeable. Affable. And that's only the A's. Just don't ask me to be nice. Nice has nothing to do with me.

~_First lines from The Book Thief by Markus Zusak_

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They had been wrong to come here. Hermione had known that it was dangerous the moment Godric's Hollow had come to her mind, and she had stalled visiting for as long as her good conscience would allow her. She didn't think Harry fully appreciated the risk she knew they would be taking, he was so eager to see his parents' resting place, so eager to find some way to move forward in their search for Horcruxes.

She should never have let Harry follow the body of Bathilda Bagshot; never left him alone with her. Her instincts had screamed at her, and she had ignored them. And now… now they were fighting, scrambling for their lives.

Hermione cast a stunner at Nagini. Her body was twice as long as a grown man and her girth even thicker than Hermione's waist—but the spell veered off course and shattered a window as she was forced to dodge the lunging snake. Cold rushed in and the air clotted with the stench of rotting meat. She hit the floor hard, shoulders knocking, but there was no time to process the pain.

Hermione had her back to the wall in an instant, her brown eyes straining through the dark. Nagini was hissing, coils writhing, and it lunged for her again, mouth opened wide, baring fleshy fangs as long as daggers and thrice as deadly.

She cast again, and red light shot out of the wand tip with a bang, sending the snake flying toward the ceiling. There was a muffled cry and she saw Harry's dark form stagger and fall back.

"He's coming! _Hermione, he's coming!"_ Harry's voice was half yell, half moan. He was coming. Voldemort was coming.

The steadfast laws of physics upheld their rules: the snake began to fall, hissing and thrashing like a creature possessed, crushing wooden shelves whilst splintered china flew everywhere; several pieces scraping across Hermione's cheeks and clothes, leaving fine, shallow cuts. Every nerve in her body was alive and alert, adrenaline pumping through her blood, but her stomach was roiling with fear—not for herself, but for Harry—and she bent in half, covering her head with her hands as debris flew, trying to remember which way was up…

Then there were strong arms around her waist, dragging her across the shabby, moth-eaten bed, and she couldn't swallow the shriek of pain and terror that escaped her mouth. It was Harry, thank goodness, wonderful Harry—but there was a shard of china now stuck in her armpit that she had failed to notice before.

She quickly forgot about the niggling and painful shard; it could be worried over later. The snake was coming around again for another strike, and Harry rushed for the gaping maw of the broken window, shards of glass sticking out like monstrous teeth, pulling her with him. The snake hurled itself at them, and Hermione screamed "_Confringo!_" The spell rocketed around the room, bouncing off every surface, destroying everything it hit, splinters and fire and something unmentionably horrible chasing them—

Then they were freefalling. Out the shattered window they soared, Hermione's stomach flying up to her throat as a sense of weightlessness came upon them. She was screaming whilst Harry was yelling; his face a mask of agony and mixing consciousnesses. He was in Voldemort's head again or perhaps Voldemort was in Harry's head. The stars twinkled in the clear night sky above, wretchedly innocent and uncaring of the two young persons' predicament.

A dark shadow blotted out the stars, its cloak as dark and shapeless as the night sky, its flesh as white as the snow on the ground, two red eyes, burning like hot coals. The devil himself flew out the window and fell upon them, spidery-fingered hands latching onto their polyjuiced bodies, a tangle of flailing limbs and voices and cloth. Harry's yell became an ear-splitting scream.

Hermione focused very hard… _Destination, determination, deliberation!_

The world was swallowed by blackness; pressure was crushing in from all sides, suffocating—

They were spat out of the void and all landed painfully on the ground. Hermione's world spun; the tall trees surrounding them warped into spiraling toward an obscure point over-head. The wind had been stolen from her lungs with their rough landing, and she gasped and coughed, diaphragm fluttering as she sucked in mouthfuls of icy, clean air.

There was a warm body next to her, though she could barely concentrate on it at the moment. But she could hear him spluttering and gasping as well, and he recovered much quickly than she did, hissing with displeasure. He stood, his face rising into her line of sight.

'_Voldemort!_'

The blood in her veins turned to ice at the sight of his white, inhuman face, and the fury displayed there. His color was impossibly pale: he seemed to blur at the edges, melting into the snowy and shadowed landscape. He growled and hissed, wand held gently in his eerie hands as he began to walk away. Hermione's vision snapped into acute sharpness.

'_Harry!_'

Still in the body of the bald man, Harry lay a mere few meters away, groaning and writhing, clutching at his forehead as if his skull were about to crack open. Voldemort's blood red eyes glowed in the dark, filled with luminescent triumph—here lay his long-hunted prey, within reaching distance! Two words and the war would be won!

'_No_,' Hermione's mind said, '_No, not Harry! Not Harry!_'

What could she do? She could hardly be a match for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named; she was a mere schoolgirl, no matter how clever. He hadn't even spared her a fleeting glance; she had been so easily dismissed as inconsequential.

But perhaps that could be her advantage over him. She rolled over onto her belly, knees and hands curling under her. Dead leaves, black with winter's rot, clung wetly to her clothes. Harry was barely coherent, blindly crawling backward to get away from the bringer of death that was stalking toward him, scraping his hands on small stones and dead branches.

Hermione's wand was hot in her hand, and she forced herself up; her heart rolling up her constricted throat, and threw herself at the Dark Lord's legs. She caught him around the knees, her arms locking around the bony appendages and holding on tight. Lord Voldemort shrieked as the force of her petite body sent him sprawling to the ground. Hermione threw her beaded handbag toward Harry as Voldemort thrashed in her arms.

"Run, Harry! RUN!" She screamed. Voldemort pointed his wand at her, a snarl on his lipless mouth, and she closed her eyes and Apparated, pulling Voldemort and herself far, far, _far_ away from the forest and Harry Potter.

She could feel sand under her cheek and the roaring breaths of the ocean. The air was wet and sticky, and she could feel her hair curl at the sudden humidity.

"_NO!"_ Voldemort howled, finally kicking her off and standing. "NO! You filthy Mudblood!" His boot came down on her hand and she cried out as two of her fingers broke along with her wand. He kicked her again in the ribs, forcing her to roll onto her back. He glared at her for only a fraction of a second before vanishing hurriedly with a twisting pop… no doubt back to the forest where they'd left Harry.

Quiet fell upon her, interrupted only by the sound of crashing waves. Hermione gasped for breath, sobbing. She prayed, pleaded, that Harry had gotten away in time, that Voldemort didn't have her friend dying under his wand right now. She cradled her snapped wand in her broken fingers as she forced herself to her feet, feeling as if she'd just lost a very important part of herself, like a limb or an organ. The dragon heartstring was still intact, but the well-loved vine wood was crushed, splintered and frayed, split into three awful pieces.

Voldemort would be back soon, back to kill her, and she staggered down the beach, refusing to just lie down and die. No, if she was going to die, she was going to make it difficult for him. She was going to go down fighting. Hot tears dripped down her frozen cheeks. The porcelain shard in her armpit throbbed, and she fingered it delicately before grinding her teeth and pulling it out. It was long, easily a finger's length, and the blue paint shone purple through her blood. She pressed her hand to the wound, hoping to stifle the blood flow as it soaked through her clothes. Her skin itched as she felt the Polyjuice begin to fade away.

Hermione tried not to cry too hard, her ribs and her shoulder throbbed with every breath, and with each gut-wrenching sob her vision blurred and her skinny legs wobbled. She didn't want to die. She wasn't ready to die! She was only eighteen; all the things she would never get to do… Her parents, safe in Australia, would never remember that they had a daughter. Neville—sweet, clumsy Neville—she would never help him with his homework again. She would never hear Lavender's annoying, high-pitched voice as she gossiped about boys—odd, she thought, that she should think of Lavender—of all people—at a time like this. And Ron—jealous, selfish, wonderful Ron Weasley—she would never be able to tell him how much she loved him. She would never graduate, never go to university or get a job to support herself, never get married or have children or grow old and never run her fingers over the dog-eared cover of another book…

Voldemort's wispy, high-pitched voice cut through her musings. "_Crucio!_"

The curse slammed into Hermione's back, and she crumpled. She could hear herself screaming, wailing at the top of her lungs, but barely registered the sound as her voice; it sounded so far away and so foreign.

Screwdrivers were digging into her fingers and toes; pulling up her nails by the roots. Razors were slicing into every nerve on her skin, flash fire had gotten into her lungs and was burning them up like tissue paper; her eyes were rolling, melting out her sockets. Her intestines had been transfigured into a mass of writhing, furious snakes intent on eating their way out of her body. Her teeth were being pulled away without anesthetic…

The hellish agony came to an abrupt stop, leaving her shaking uncontrollably, a bone-deep ache resounding through her.

She could slightly feel the hem of Voldemort's cloak like mist as he stepped beside her, but found she lacked the courage to open her eyes and look at him.

"You filthy Mudblood," he hissed, and she shivered at the pure malice in his voice, "You disgusting, horrible, _filthy_ MUDBLOOD! WHERE IS HE?"

Despite her terror, Hermione felt relief soar through her. He hadn't gotten Harry. Harry had gotten away; he was safe! And Harry had everything he needed, he had her handbag, he had the Locket—thank goodness, it hadn't been her who was wearing it when they went to Godric's Hollow! She didn't want to imagine how badly things would have turned out if Voldemort discovered _that_ on her…

The Dark Lord fisted his hands in her jumper and pulled her up as effortlessly as if she were a ragdoll, making her shriek in pain. "Where is he?" Voldemort thundered, and some spittle flew from his mouth and splattered across her face. His breath was scentless; odd, she half-expected him to smell of blood…

"Where is Potter? TELL ME, MUDBLOOD!"

"Don't know," she coughed, "I wouldn't know. I don't know…"

She felt his wand tip press against her temple gently. She watched his wand hand out of the corner of her eye—he held it so strangely, his grip loose as if it was infinitely delicate, like his wand was something to be worshipped, something to be loved and cared for as a newborn child or a lover—not a tool.

"_Legilmens_," he hissed.

The spell caught her off guard, and there was no time for Hermione to prepare her mind for the onslaught, no time to hide precious, potentially dangerous information. But hidden information was what Voldemort was looking for, and he ignored everything else as he forced his way through her brain. Harry's mission—the Horcruxes—completely overlooked! He was unbelievably careless in his fury, and in his desperate search he left every thought and memory that he brushed against in devastated tatters.

'_Where is he? WHERE IS HE? WHEREISHE?_'

Voldemort pulled out of her mind with a snarl on his mouth, and she cried out at the violent exit of his mind from hers. Her entire body shook; she felt as if she had just been violated in the worst possible way, as if she had been psychically _raped_. There was a gaping, bleeding wound in her mind from his forced entry and rough removal.

He dropped her, and she fell boneless to the sand; water coming up to rush over her legs. Her mind was reeling. Her body burned.

Large, cold hands wrapped around her neck and held her tight, pushing her down until she lied flat on her back. Furious red eyes bored into terrified brown ones. _Oh, Merlin, was this it?_ Voldemort was so angry that he was going to strangle her with his bare hands, thumbs pressed harshly against her fluttering pulse?

"You horrible girl! You filthy Mudblood; how _dare_ you!"

Whatever else he was saying was drowned out by the crest of water that rushed up the beach and engulfed her head. It was practically impossible to hold her breath with her head upside-down. She could keep her mouth closed, but not her nostrils, and water flooded her sinuses. Her chest heaved and convulsed as seawater rushed into her bronchiolar tubes, and burned the back of her throat. Though her brain told her it was better to lay still, her body refused to obey, and she clutched and scratched desperately at his lily-white arms, drawing blood.

Then the water was gone, the sea had pulled it back, and she choked and gagged, gasping for air that he wouldn't let her get. He was still speaking, still cursing and spitting at her like a cat that had been kicked—but she couldn't hear a word he said over the blood rushing in her ears. The wave came back and she was drowning again, grasping and scratching at every bit of robe and flesh she could get her fingers on. She could faintly see her blood tainting the water. The wound in her shoulder burned as if it were on fire.

'_Pull me up! Pull me up!_' Her mind wailed, throbbing. Black spots danced across her vision, blotting out those stupid, irritating, twinkling stars.

'_Help_.'

Then, suddenly, Voldemort flinched away, shrieking at the shard of blue willow china skewered into his forearm. He hadn't noticed it in her hand, cutting her palm to bloody ribbons; she had forgotten it entirely. The life-giving fluid stood out starkly against his skin, impossibly crimson. However, she was in no condition to run away. Her greedy lungs sucked in wonderful, wonderful air and when she staggered to her feet her knees gave out and she collapsed again, trembling all over. A single step was impossible.

He was back a moment later, fisting a hand in her sopping wild hair, and dragging her up the beach. Hermione clutched at her scalp, her fingernails digging into the fragile skin of the back of his hand.

"_Crucio!_"

That blinding, all-consuming pain was back, peeling the flesh from her bones, setting a hot coal against her tongue and burning her lips shut, stabbing needles into her eyes, curling around her frantically beating heart like a fist about to tear it from her ribcage, pain so intense that it couldn't be resisted, that she couldn't think, couldn't do _anything_ but scream and thrash, begging for mercy, for death… '_stop, stop, stopstopstopstopSTOP_!'

Then, miraculously, it stopped. Hermione dared to open her eyes and saw Voldemort with wand in hand, shaking half as badly as she was. His face was so hideous, so angry, _so_ inhuman that hurt to look at him, so she didn't.

"You," he began then paused, his voice hoarse from abuse, "I should kill you."

She didn't care if he killed her as long as Harry was safe. Harry was the most important thing. If Harry was safe then she could die feeling okay.

"But," Voldemort continued, and Hermione felt her heart and stomach drop right out of her body, "You are much too valuable. You," he panted. She could hear his voice gaining momentum, gaining confidence, "You're Potter's little Mudblood friend. _Hermione Granger_. If he knows that you're alive, he'll come for you. He'll walk _right into my hands. _He'll come to me_ willingly!_"

Hermione curled into the smallest ball possible, sickening dread pooling inside her. She felt like she might vomit. It was true. Harry would walk through fire, straight into Voldemort's lair if he thought it could save her.

'_No, no, just kill me. I'd rather die than become bait for Harry_.' She thought, but couldn't manage to voice the words aloud. Tiny sobs shook her broken, battered frame, every bit of her ached.

A hand landed on her shoulder, deceivingly gentle, and she flinched violently, a noise of distress escaping her throat.

"Look at me, girl."

She didn't.

"_Look at me!_"

She hadn't thought it possible to be more afraid than she already was, but the darkness in his voice made the prospect of not obeying even more terrifying than doing so. She forced her eyes open, trembling with pain, fear and hyperventilation. Lord Voldemort grinned wickedly down at her.

"Undesirable number two, Golden Girl Hermione Granger," he said matter-of-factly, trailing a long finger down the line of her jaw. "You're my key to _victory_."

She shook, and wondered if she was going into shock. "N-n-no!"

"Y-y-yes," he mocked, the animalistic smile never wavering. His hand slid from her shoulder to wrap around her neck, but he didn't strangle her again. "You're coming with me now, little Mudblood."

He Apparated, dragging her along with him, and she couldn't even wonder at how effortless the Disapparation had been—she'd never experienced one so smooth, so non-suffocating before—as trepidation consumed her entirely. One moment they were on the coast, the next he held her before the black gates of a deeply shadowed manor on a country lane. Hermione's stomach heaved, but there were no contents within to expel.

Voldemort pushed her forward, but her legs buckled and she fell to her hands and knees. Her palm stung as mineral-rich dirt was ground into her bleeding skin.

"Get up!" he scowled. "Get up, girl!" But she couldn't, a weak croak her only reply.

"_Imperio_."

With that one terrible word, every worry Hermione had was smoothed away like a wrinkle brushed out of a shirt. Her pain numbed to a consistent, but dull throb, her mind empty sans a vague, untraceable happiness. She felt relaxed, though her hands still trembled visibly. She couldn't control that even if he told her to.

'_Get up._'

She stood. Voldemort placed his hands possessively at her shoulder and elbow, but she couldn't bring herself to mind.

'_Now, walk with me_.'

That wasn't so bad, was it? No, it wasn't bad at all, though nothing could stop the shaking of her knees. Her muscles ached, and she was tired, so very tired; she felt as if an entire week of sleep would not be enough to get her back to normal.

They strode through the gate, which passed through them like black mist and left goosebumps on her skin. The path was lined with tall hedges that were perfectly cut, leafy and green despite it being Christmas Eve, and she could see a couple of albino peacocks strutting around, their tails fanned out behind them like enormous snowflakes. The grand, black doors of the home flew open as Voldemort came within arm's reach, and he eagerly pulled her inside.

Hermione had rarely seen such fine interior design; it was all very old, and in the back of her mind she distantly acknowledged the Gothic and Victorian furniture and architecture. Voldemort quickly continued to yank her along the dark halls into a ballroom. He halted at the railing, looking down at the people surrounding the fireplace below who were already in the process of turning to look up at the Dark Lord. Hermione continued to stare blankly ahead.

"My Lord!" gasped Bellatrix Lestrange, her hands grasping at handfuls of her heavy robes. Her eyes wide, glimmering with madness and adulation. "Who've you got there? You've caught someone! She must be important! Who is she, my Lord? She looks like a drowned cat!"

Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy stared up with much more dignity—or was it more ashamedly? They were quiet, but their fine eyebrows arched high. Draco was with them, looking quite stricken and faintly green.

"Patience, Bella," Voldemort said softly, "Draco." He extended one hand to beckon the young man to him.

Lestrange practically shoved Malfoy up the stairs in her eagerness, and he stumbled up the first few steps, completely lacking grace. His pale hand grasped the railing for support. Voldemort held Hermione firmly by the back of her neck as Malfoy came level with them.

"Don't be so shy, Draco, come say hello. I do believe you recognize Miss Hermione Granger from school, don't you?" he said silkily. He drew his thumb up from the base of her neck to the top, and the Imperius Curse slipped away. Horror filled Hermione's being, the pain swelling back, and tears leaked from her wide eyes and fell steadily from her cheeks, her entire form shivering.

Below, Lestrange gave an ecstatic squeal and clapped her hands together.

Malfoy's Adam's apple bobbed. "I—yeah, that-that's Granger. But how…?"

"In a moment. I shouldn't like to have to repeat myself." Voldemort said, releasing Hermione to take a hold of Malfoy's arm. The boy barely managed to refrain from visibly flinching as the sleeve of his robe was pulled away, revealing the Dark Mark blemishing his skin.

Without Voldemort holding her up, Hermione collapsed into a trembling, wet heap; her salty hair fell around her face in stringy seaweed-like clumps. She was at Malfoy Manor. She was at Malfoy Manor and Lord Voldemort had had her under the Imperius Curse. Merlin, she hadn't even put up any decent sort of fight! She hadn't fought it at all. Why? Harry could shake off the Imperius Curse—even Voldemort's—and yet she had succumbed and crumbled to his will so easily and so comfortably! That sick, nauseous feeling in her stomach increased to near-crippling amounts. She could taste bile on her tongue. She forced herself to concentrate on her breathing, to take slow, deep breaths lest she black out. She kept her eyes focused on a knot in the wood of the floor.

'_Slowly now. In. out. In. out.'_

She heard Malfoy grunt in pain as Voldemort pressed his spidery fingers to the mark, summoning his Death Eaters to the Manor. They came quickly.

'_How are you going to get out of this one, Hermione?_' she thought to herself. '_Never been the damsel in distress before, expect maybe during the Triwizard Tournament, if you can really count that one._'

Except there would be no "getting out" of a building full of Death Eaters. And, within a few minutes, it was indeed full; the ballroom becoming rustling sea of black cloaks and white masks. A few, like the Malfoy's, were in more casual dress, not having had time to change at the abrupt summons, and one man's hair even dripped shampoo suds.

"My faithful… Death Eaters," Voldemort began, his cat-like eyes scanning the crowd from above, "As some of you may know, I have had a trap waiting for Harry Potter at Godric's Hollow for some time. I had rightfully assumed that Harry should, at some point, visit the graves of his parents, and tonight I found that trap sprung. Unfortunately," he added quickly, bitterly, noting that an excited murmur began to rise from the crowd. They silenced at once. "Harry Potter slithered out of my grasp once again. However, I have not walked away empty handed."

He knelt, and forced Hermione to her feet, once again holding her at the neck and shoving her face over the railing toward his audience, like a trophy on display. Briny water dripped to the tiles below, though whether it was from her hair or her eyes she did not know.

"I have here Hermione Granger, a prize second only to Potter himself. You see, as with Sirius Black, I believe that Harry will do everything he can to rescue his beloved friend. We have had little success in hunting down and capturing Harry Potter, but with Miss Granger here Harry will come to us.

"She is our… _guest of honor_, as it were," he said with amusement, and several Death Eaters chuckled, "As a young lady, it is only appropriate that Miss Granger look her best for Harry's _welcoming party_. Thus," Voldemort's soft voice lowered and sharpened, "I want her wholly _unspoiled_. If I find Miss Granger with so much as a _hair_ out of place, the one responsible will be answering to me _personally_." He stroked her hair out of her face, tucking the strands behind her ear almost affectionately. His voice was a dark rustle. "Does everyone understand?"

A shiver of confusion and fear rippled through the throng, and there was a murmur of agreement—although it was clear that quite a few were unhappy about Voldemort's order. Hermione could see Professor Snape staring up at her, his dark eyes wide with cold horror.

"My Lord!" Lestrange cried. "You're bleeding!"

"Hmm? Oh, yes," Voldemort said, removing his hand from Hermione and trailing his wand across his wounds, sealing them over with new, unblemished skin. "A mere scratch. She was not an easy one to capture; when I broke her wand she fought with her bare hands. Though isn't that the way of all animals?" The Death Eaters laughed. Lestrange screeched and spat, furious on her master's behalf, glaring at Hermione with raw hate.

"The only animals here are you," Hermione mumbled, barely aware that she was speaking aloud. Her wounds will still open and bleeding, and every second that ticked by had her feeling more and more exhausted.

Voldemort's hand wove into her hair again, and he pulled her head back roughly, exposing the vulnerable column of her throat. "What was that?"

She whimpered, trembling. Malfoy was eyeing her with fear and pity.

"What did you just say, Mudblood?" Voldemort repeated, drawing his wand down her neck.

"Nothing," she whispered.

"Are you sure?"

"N-nothing. I said nothing,"

"Is that so?" he replied, just as quietly. He scrutinized her for a seemingly endless moment. His next word slithered out of his mouth like the caress of a lover, "_Crucio_."

The pain was back, every inch of her on fire, worms digging their way up through her muscles to her skin. Her head hit the floor hard, and she felt like the wound at her shoulder was growing, tearing like old cloth, threatening to relieve her of her left arm entirely. A thousand rusty nails were being hammered through her feet and hands, a thunderbolt was ripping down her spinal cord… her insides were being turned to outsides—

It ended, and she curled in on herself, sobbing hysterically. Malfoy looked down at her in horror, his lips slightly parted. She'd never seen him with such an expression. He looked like he'd never seen her before, like he wanted to _help_ her, but all he could manage was to stand stock still and hope that the predator in the room didn't turn its fangs on him.

"Draco,"

Malfoy's eyes shot up.

Voldemort's entire being seemed to ooze satisfaction. "I'm leaving Miss Granger in your care. Make sure she is _comfortable_, won't you? If you're going to be home for the holidays you might as well make yourself _useful_."

There were several snickers, and Malfoy dropped to his knees, bowing like a Buddhist. "Yes, my Lord, of course."

Voldemort swept out of the room. Class dismissed. The Death Eaters began to disperse. Hermione tried to shut the world out. She couldn't deal with it right now, the laughter, the jeers, and the torture. Malfoy pushed her onto her back, and she flinched violently, but made no noise. He was saying something, but she wouldn't focus on his words, nor would she look at him. All she could do was stare blankly up at the ornate ceiling. When Harry had had Occlumency lessons with Professor Snape, he had talked about how difficult it was for him to clear his mind, to empty it of everything, but Hermione didn't find it hard at all. Don't think of anything. Thinking hurt. Thinking brought attention to the wound of her mind, brought attention to how Voldemort had stolen her innocence without even touching her…

When Malfoy cast a levitation spell on her, she didn't respond. When he moved her down the stairs and further down to a dank, foul-smelling cellar, she didn't respond. The barred door shrieked open, and she was dumped unceremoniously into the arms of the old wandmaker, Ollivander, and Luna Lovegood.

Tears filled Luna's dreamy blue eyes as she cradled her schoolmate in her lap. She gently patted Hermione's pale cheek.

"Hermione. Oh, Hermione, please look at me." The blonde girl whimpered.

"Luna, look, there!" Came Ollivander's whispered exclamation. His gnarled fingers brushed across the deep red stain ever-expanding on Hermione's jumper, the torn, frayed knit. He and Luna shared a quiet look full of dread.

Luna took one of the older girl's hands in hers, and cradled Hermione's neck with her other hand.

"She's cold. And her pulse isn't up to speed. Oh, Mister Ollivander—"

The old man got to his feet, knees and back cracking loudly. "Put as much pressure on the wound as you can, Luna, it's th-the Axillary artery, I think—or perhaps the Axillary vein. We don't know how long she has been bleeding." He hurried to the door, and the goblin Griphook took place where the wandmaker had previously knelt, eyeing Hermione with pursed lips. Luna pressed her palm against Hermione's armpit, and the bushy-haired witch hiccupped in pain, her rapidly dulling eyes rolling upward.

Two men stood guard at the top of the staircase, grumbling discontentedly.

"Please, sir," Ollivander begged hoarsely through the bars.

The man on the right scowled and waved his wand threateningly. "Quiet you!"

"Miss Granger is gravely wounded; she needs medical assistance…"

"I said quiet, old man!"

"Please, she'll die…"

"It's a Mudblood! They're like cockroaches! Stamp on them as much as you like, but they keep coming back!"

The Death Eater on the left sent a stinging hex at his partner. "Quit yer bellyachin'. The Dark Lord wants the lass alive; if sumthin's wrong wit' 'er it's gotta be taken care of. Go get Malfoy, the lass is his trouble!"

The man on the right huffed, but did as he was told. Ollivander swayed with relief and pulled away from the door to sit beside Luna, Griphook and the new young lady. Vine and dragon heartstring, 10 ¾ inches; he remembered. He placed his hand over Luna's, adding more pressure to the wound, and swept his fingers across Hermione's brow, brushing away the hair and clammy sweat. Her eyelids were lowered, though not closed completely.

"Miss Granger. Miss Granger, you must stay awake. Can you hear me? You must not fall asleep! Do you understand?"

Hermione moaned, her head bobbing slightly. She closed her eyes tightly for a moment then opened them wide. The circles under her eyes were deep, dark purple.

"Lu… na…" she breathed.

"I'm here, Hermione," Luna said, tightening her hold on the older girl, rocking gently. "I'm right here. Yo-you'll be okay."

The barred door burst open, and Malfoy hurried in with his mother. At their entry, Griphook slunk away from his fellow prisoners. Ollivander and Luna huddled closer to Hermione's limp form, as if to protect her.

"What's this about Granger dying?" Malfoy demanded.

"Miss Granger is bleeding from a potentially fatal wound." Ollivander said. "Did you not notice when bringing her down here? It is quite obvious."

Narcissa's mouth was tightly pinched, and she cast a charm. Hermione's jumper and shirt vanished from her body, reappearing in the Malfoy matron's hands, leaving the young woman in her bra and pants. There would be no male blushing at the sight of her body, however, with her flesh wound horridly displayed for all to see. Luna's hand, covered in her friend's blood, rushed to her mouth, and there was a collective gasp. Narcissa's expression grew grim and she knelt, tracing the tip of her wand over Hermione's body.

"I-I didn't think it was that bad…" Malfoy admitted reluctantly.

"Not that bad?" Ollivander hissed. "No one ever walks away from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named with injuries that are 'not that bad'! You know that well enough, young Malfoy!"

The young man flinched.

"Go to my medicine cabinet, Draco!" Narcissa demanded. "We need Essence of Dittany and a Blood Replenishing Potion immediately or we'll lose her!"

What little color there was in Malfoy's cheeks vanished completely. Voldemort had charged him with Hermione's care; if she died it would be his head. He fled the makeshift dungeon, running for his life.

"Don't fall asleep, child," Narcissa said firmly, casting spells on the Muggle-born witch. "You _mustn't_ let yourself sleep!"

But dreams were calling Hermione Granger, and the pull of darkness could not be resisted for much longer. Her eyelids felt as if they had weights attached to them, and she could only distantly feel her body as a light prickle.

Luna pressed her cheek to Hermione's forehead and began to sing. Her voice was light and whimsical, though tears fell from her eyes.

_"Merry Christmas, merry Christmas,_

_"Ring the Hogwarts bell._

_"Merry Christmas, merry Christmas,_

_"Cast a Christmas spell._

_"How wondrous the ways of Christmas;_

_"Have a merry Christmas Day._

_"Move around the sparkling fire;_

_"Have a merry Christmas Day._

_"Find a broomstick in your stocking_

_"Singing you the magic of this place._

_"Join the owls' joyous flocking_

_"On this merry Christmas Day._

_"Ding dong, ding dong,_

_"Ring the Hogwarts bell._

_"Ding dong, ding dong,_

_"Cast a Christmas spell._

_"Ding dong, ding dong,_

_"Make the Christmas morning bright,_

_"Fly high across the sky,_

_"Light the Christmas night._

_"Merry Christmas, merry Christmas,_

_"Ring the Hogwarts bell._

_"Merry Christmas, merry Christmas."_

* * *

_Author's Afterthoughts:_

_Wow, that was longer than I expected it to get! ::wipes forehead:: Phew! If you think Hermione's going to die then you're obviously just a reader, not a writer. XD Come on; would I really do that? ::Whistles and rocks on heels, ignoring the voices shouting "yes!"::_

_The song Luna sings is from the Harry Potter and the Sorcerer/Philosopher's Stone Soundtrack. Boy, what an awful Christmas, huh?_

_By the way: Thanks to _Shan84_ for beta-ing, and thanks to _What-Ansketil-Did-Next_ for the story title!_


	2. Guest of Honor

**_The Ivory Tower_**

Hannibal OST-_Virtue_ by Hans Zimmerman—Song for The Ivory Tower

* * *

_2. Guest of Honor_

* * *

"Courage, dear heart."

_~Aslan to Lucy from Voyage of the Dawn Treader by C. S. Lewis_

* * *

Hermione Granger was not well. She had brushed so close to death that, looking back, she swore she could feel the wispy, tattered ends of the Veil brushing across her face. Draco and Narcissa Malfoy had only just saved her life. That had been a week ago. But like when Ron had been Splinched, healing was not instantaneous and being kept in a dark, drippy, moldy cellar did not do anything to help. In fact, her wounds had become infected. Her palm, where the porcelain plate shard had sliced, was swollen and red, but it was not half as bad as her armpit. The wound there, though cleanly cut, constantly wept watery yellow pus like tears out of a large red eye and left her weak-muscled and fevered.

Still, she was in better shape than she had been upon her arrival—however little it was. She'd seen and heard nothing of Voldemort in the days of her imprisonment, and Death Eaters only appeared to bring food and water and the occasional repetitive insult. Hermione was kept sandwiched between Luna and Ollivander—bedding was not provided, and Ollivander was adamant about keeping Hermione warm so that her fever did not become deadly chills.

Ollivander was a prisoner because Voldemort needed to know things about wands, particularly about the bond between Harry and his wands, and also about the legendary Elder Wand. It was an extreme move, as wand makers were generally neutral wizards—Ollivander might have freely given the information about the wand to a Death Eater had one walked into his shop and asked. Luna's kidnap, on the other hand, was a political maneuver: the Death Eaters had not liked what Xenophillius Lovegood had been writing in his magazine, _The Quibbler_, and had taken her to shut him up. Luna feared for her father's health; his wife's death had hit him hard and his daughter was his everything these days. Hermione was not sure why Griphook the Goblin was here as he was not forthcoming with any of his personal history, and she was too sick to pry—so unlike her usual nature. She ached to escape, but knew she was in a position where that was impossible. It was amazing how much she missed the sun.

The wound so close to her shoulder burned and throbbed with every heartbeat, making sleep difficult and restless, and moving her arm on that side was impossible. She felt sticky, hot and dirty all over; her hair was fit for nesting birds; heavy and clumped with dried sea salt.

There was a rattling at the gated door, and Hermione blearily opened her heavy eyes to see Wormtail shove that day's nourishment through the bars. Luna stood to retrieve it, as she was the healthiest of their lot, and the movement lightly jarred Hermione's shoulder. She moaned lowly in pain, burying her nose into Ollivander's bony shoulder. He ran his withered hand across her head in what was meant to be a comforting measure.

"Hush, Miss Granger. It's all right." _Empty words._ She rather wished he hadn't said anything at all. It wasn't all right. Nothing was right at all, except…

Harry. Harry wasn't here, wasn't a prisoner with her, wasn't dead—that was the only thing that was all right. As long as Harry was fighting and free, she could have hope that things would be okay in the end, even if they weren't now.

Luna fed Hermione, switching off between taking a bit for herself and giving some to Hermione. Water, slightly stale bread and some sort of lukewarm soup that tasted strongly of onions were the human's fare—Griphook was granted a raw hunk of meat that looked far less than fresh. The taste of the soup made Hermione's stomach coil in protest and due to the infection she had no appetite, but she forced it down anyway. Allium bulbs, like onions, were used in most healing potions; it would help keep her immune system working.

To her simultaneous relief and disappointment, breakfast was gone quickly. Hermione sagged into Ollivander's side—trapped in feverish daydreams—her eyes hot and aching for sleep. Time was a long, unremarkable string, stretching on and on—there was no way to count the hours.

Today could be set apart from the past ones, however, by the sound of an angry voice echoing through the bars of the cellar. Voldemort.

"…est of care?"

"I-I thought…"

"Thought? You _thought_? Did you _think_ I was simply blowing _hot air_ when I said that she was to be treated as if she were a _guest of honor_!"

"N-n-no, my Lord! Of course not, b-b-but we…"

"Silence!"

A terrified quiet arose.

"No… no, my Lord! Please! Please, I beg you!"

"Avada Kedavra."

The leafy green light of the curse flashed through the doorway, making Luna and Ollivander both stiffen.

"Come, Draco," came Voldemort's whispery voice. "Nagini."

Their shadows glided down the steps before them, stringy and abstract against the stairs. Wormtail appeared at the front, shoving a ring of iron keys into the door lock with fumbling hands. He threw the gate open, the rub of iron against iron producing an ear-splitting shriek, and fell on bended knee in the Dark Lord's wake. Beside him slithered the enormous viper, Nagini, and behind him came a white-faced, wide-eyed Malfoy. Hermione had never seen her classmate with such a stricken expression—who had Voldemort killed up there?

"Away, Ollivander, Lovegood," the Dark Lord hissed with a gesture of his arm.

The two stiffened beside Hermione, who felt sickening fear well in her throat. It was bad enough being deathly ill and helpless, but to be helpless before _this_ man! She would not even be able to crawl away in her current state.

Nagini hissed and snapped at them, and Ollivander scrambled away, getting to his feet shakily, looking equal parts terrified and ashamed.

"Stand aside, girl,"

But Luna didn't move.

"Stand aside!"

Malfoy jerked slightly then moved forward, pulling Luna away, though she struggled and shouted.

"No, no, no! Hermione!"

Hermione drew her good arm up to her chest in feeble defense as Voldemort knelt before her. She looked up at him through eyes bruised from illness and exhaustion. Fear wrapped its invisible fingers around her heart, making her breath shallow and erratic. His eyes were so very red, and his pearly white skin seemed to glow against the darkness of the dungeon. Long, spidery fingers reached out to her, and she couldn't stop the distressed noise that escaped her as his hand closed in. She pressed herself back, but there was only wall at her back, no sort of conceivable escape hidden in the brickwork. Her heartbeat drummed louder and louder in her ears until she was sure that it could be echoing through the entire chamber.

Her eyes shut tightly, and he drew the backs of his fingers down the side of her fevered, sweat-slicked face. Her heart gave a terrified little leap, feeling as if it was cracking her ribs in its desperate bid to get free. His fingers continued their invasive, eerily gentle movement downward, nails lightly dragging across her neck. When he drew his fingers over the infected wound, she screamed bloody murder, the world going blue-white with pain. Of its own accord, her good arm lashed out to grip at his wrist, nails scraping into fragile skin, but the pain ended as soon as it began, leaving her sobbing and moaning uncontrollably, tears pouring from her eyes as she curled in on herself.

Voldemort stood, exhaling softly with displeasure. "If she remains in this pigsty much longer, she will die. And you are much too precious to die yet, Miss Granger." He said, pale yew wand appearing in his fingers. His snake coiled around her, making her go absolutely rigid despite the pain, and Hermione rose into the air with terrified hiccup.

"No! No, please! Hermione!" Luna screamed. "Hermione!" She was struggling against Malfoy as fiercely as Malfoy was holding onto her, but he wasn't clinging so desperately just to keep her from getting loose, Hermione noted. His face was pressed into the nape of Luna's neck, and his shoulders shook; he seemed to be on the verge of a breakdown.

"Silence her, Draco!" Voldemort hissed as he swept back through the gate. Wormtail's rodent-like face made Hermione's skin crawl, and as she glanced back into the cellar to see Ollivander's worried gaze she saw Malfoy spin Luna round in his arms and embrace her tightly, directing her sobs into the crook of his neck.

Wormtail closed the gate with all the final echoes of a death bell's toll.

Hermione felt herself begin to hyperventilate as they moved up the stairs, and no amount of logical reasoning could get her body to respond against it. The snake coiled around her more tightly, its great, triangular head staring at her from its place upon her rapidly moving breast. When they reached the room above, a twitch of horror pulsed through her at the sight of Lucius Malfoy's dead body, grey eyes still open and staring blankly at the ceiling. It was unreal, unnatural for a body to lie there like that, unscathed by the tools of torment and death, no knife plunged into his chest, no pool of blood growing under him or ruptured organ. The human body was such a difficult thing to destroy… it shouldn't be so easy to snuff out the light of a man with two lonely words!

She whined nasally and began wiggling against Nagini's coils, tears dripping as panic flooded her senses.

The snake hissed something that made Voldemort look at her sharply.

"Calm down."

But she couldn't, and the sight and sensation of his eyes on her only made the feeling of panic increase. She thrashed harder, crying out when her infection protested the movement. Voldemort's frown was a hideous, malformed mockery of the human expression, and she recoiled at the approach of his hand.

"No. No, no, no…"

"Sleep, girl."

He drew his hand over her face, and her eyes closed and she knew sleep.

* * *

The first things her mind registered were that she was warm, soft and silken blankets cocooning her from all sides, and that it was dark. Her eyes were closed, heavy and content with the last vestiges of slumber. She awoke slowly, first registering the feeling of her eyelashes resting on her cheek, then the sickly sweet taste of morning breath, silk cloth resting on her clean skin. Her fingers slowly clenched and unclenched, feeling returning to them, and a delicate throb in the crook of her arm.

That made her frown, and in a flash she remembered, sitting bolt upright in bed. The sudden motion made her wounds throb. Wincing, she lifted her hand to her shoulder and found it wrapped in clean, white cloth, her arm cradled in a cotton sling to keep it from moving too much. She felt for infection, and found it gone; her torn palm was almost completely healed, the scars as long and thin as the palm lines she was born with. Well, that was one aspect of divination that was certainly wasted on her now. Her clothes were gone, replaced with a long, old-fashioned nightdress. A deep blush arose, and she tried not to wonder who had stripped her of her jeans and shirt, feeling vaguely violated.

The room she was in was small considering the Malfoys lived in a manor; perhaps three paces from wall to wall. The light color scheme gave it the illusion of being larger than it really was; springy yellows and greens with dark blue, _fleur de lis_ wallpaper and a canopy bed with fat, golden tassels. The carpet was the color of grass, and unbelievably soft—some sort of fine wool. Her toes sank into the cushy fibers like she was standing in moss. There was a window, but when she slipped out of bed to pull the curtains away, she found they were stuck fast and would not open. She groaned in frustration, aching for sunlight. There were doors: one locked and the other leading to a tiny, but luxurious bathroom.

The girl in the mirror cringed. There were dark blue circles around her eyes, her skin was pallid, her hair frizzy and knotted and lips white. She bit her lower lip and watched as blood rose to the area, making it flush pink. She was thinner than before, her bones jutting out at hard angles, stomach painfully concave, cheeks hollow. Her fingerprints squeaked against glass as she drew her fingers down the cheek of her reflection. If she looked this awful now, she shuddered to think how unkempt she had looked before…

A chill shot through her.

Voldemort.

Her legs suddenly unwilling to support her, she swayed and lowered herself onto the toilet seat.

Why had Voldemort seen fit to remove her from the makeshift prison? He needed her to use as bait for Harry—she remembered that much, hazy though the memories were from injury and illness—but did that really require her to be in good health? Perhaps it was a bid at psychological warfare: Harry would be more shocked to see her in good—well, _decent_ health than he would be to see her abused and broken. It was _expected_ that he would be cruel, and while he certainly had been, she had been expecting more, not to be left to rot in a cellar for a week then placed in what, by a prison's standards, was a luxurious room. A gilded cage, she supposed.

But this little bird would not sit and sing, morosely eyeing freedom beyond the bars, oh no. She stood and began ripping out the vanity drawers, searching for something, anything that could be used to aid in escape. Like most vanity dressers, this one was full of useless little potions and jewels, hairbrushes and elastic bands, a toothbrush and a tube of paste, a coil of bright blue mint floss. Near the back of one drawer, however, she found an incredible tool:

A bobby pin. Sleek and black, perhaps five centimeters long, the sight and touch of it set hope burning bright in her chest. A key!

Bending one prong of the pin, she carefully slipped it into the lock of the door that wouldn't open and began twisting. She held her breath, listening intensely to the little scratching sounds, feeling for the tiny mechanism that would push the lock out of place. She fiddled for what felt like endless minutes, her ear pressed tight against the door for any noise that might erupt on the other wide. When the lock finally clicked out of place her blood leapt, but her joy was short-lived as the door swung open and she was forced to hurry out of the way or be sharply thunked in the nose.

"Oh," Malfoy sighed, shoulders slumping as he closed the door, "You're finally awake." He looked almost as terrible as she did, his blonde hair limp and stringy, shadows coagulating under his eyes.

Hermione brought up her uninjured arm up to cover her breasts, suddenly feeling very exposed and off-kilter. "How long have I been asleep?"

Malfoy swallowed; his eyes unsteady on her. "Almost a week." His voice was a hoarse whisper.

"A _week_?" she repeated, stomach shriveling up and disappearing completely. That meant it was already well into January. No wonder she looked like death warmed over. "Who cleaned me up and cleared my wounds?" she asked after a moment.

"House Elves," he said quickly, and held up a hand to stop her outraged reply, "I know how you feel about the subject, but… don't. Just don't.

"You almost died," he continued, "_Again_. You have _no idea_ how goddamn _lucky_…" he cut himself short, sucking in a breath and clutching maniacally at his skull. "It's my own fault. I really just wanted to forget you existed, pretend that you weren't a captive in my basement, when I knew-I _knew_… Merlin! Aren't you supposed to be out with Potter and Weasley doing some mission for Professor Dumbledore to _end_ all this? How did the Dark Lord get a hold of you? You're supposed to be _smart_!"

"I know!" she shouted back. "Don't you think I _know_, Malfoy? It was a no-win situation! I had to either sacrifice myself or let him get Harry! And he couldn't-he couldn't be allowed to get Harry." Tears welling behind her eyes, she slowly sank onto the bed. "If Harry dies, everything is lost."

"Don't kid yourself, Granger. I may not like you, but you're worth ten of Potter any day."

The corner of her mouth quivered. She had the strange urge to thank him for the odd compliment, but couldn't bring herself to do so. It didn't feel appropriate. It wasn't right to thank the person helping keep you prisoner.

She took a deep breath that was almost a yawn, and folded her hands together in her lap. "What are you doing here, Malfoy?"

He looked very nervous all of a sudden, his hands twitching, black robes stark against pale skin.

"Malfoy…" she growled.

"Y-you have to dine with the Dark Lord. Tonight. No exceptions."

Her insides felt hollow. "No," she breathed, covering her mouth with one delicate hand, eyes looking around at everything but her classmate.

"_Yes_. He's been waiting for you to wake up and he's been growing impatient. You have to go."

"I won't go!"

Malfoy snapped. "You'll go or you'll be eating with the rest of the Death Eaters, and I assure you that will be horrible in ways you don't want to imagine! I, for one, don't want to be stuck in a situation where I have to see-have to see you molested or raped on my dining room table! So… S-s-so…" He stopped and took a deep, shaking breath.

Her eyes felt watery, and she opened and closed her mouth several times until she was sure she could speak without wavering. "Why does he want to see me?"

Malfoy's greasy locks shook like windblown wheat. "I don't know. I'd guess he wants information about Potter. Merlin knows that _you_ of all people could never be swayed to fiddle with the Dark Arts."

Hermione lifted her eyes to the yellow, geometrically patterned ceiling, sucking in a long breath through her stinging nose, willing the tears back. They retreated with reluctance, clinging to her pupils stubbornly.

"Okay… okay, I get it. B-but Merlin help me, I don't _want_ to…"

"No kidding," the young man muttered. "No sane person would, so at least you've got that… But there's more." He moved like a ghost over to the squat little dresser and forced the top drawer open, lifting out a long stretch of fabric that smelled faintly of mothballs.

Hermione was simultaneously awed and horrified, the little blood coloring her face draining away.

A dress. Ornate and fine, its color was a deep plum crested with fine cream-white embroidery, layered and draping, bunched at the hips and tight about the waist; a neckline that ventured far too low.

"I don't want to wear that," she whispered.

"You don't have a _choice_. You'll wear it or you go starker's," Malfoy hissed.

"And who'll ensure that? You?" She snarled back.

He threw the dress onto the bed beside her, where it fell softly with a purple flutter like a great, dead butterfly. "Me? No, I have no desire to see what beast you've been hiding under those robes all these years, but it's what the Dark Lord wants, and if you walk in wearing anything other than that dress he'll spell the clothes right off you. There's nothing else in this room besides that and the nightdress you're currently wearing. You-don't-have-a-choice."

'_Yes, I do. I can very well go starker's_,' she thought grimly, '_it's not much of a choice, but a choice it is.'_

She warily stroked the fabric of the dress; crushed velvet. There were tiny pearls embedded in the wispy, cloud-like embroidery.

"When is dinner?"

He swallowed, his eyes drifting to the side as he did some quick math. "Couple of hours."

She let the thought mull over in her head unpleasantly. "I'll be ready."

He visibly slumped with relief. "Good. Good."

"Why are you being so nice to me?"

His face grew stony. "Granger, you're a filthy Mudblood and I hate your stinking guts, _but_," he added firmly before she could protest, "You are my classmate. Like it or not, we grew up together. It's impossible not to form some sort of sentimental hogwash. Even if I imagined 'putting you in your place' a dozen times, daydreams and reality… They're not the same. And I… I don't want you to _actually_ die. You're brilliant, and you have a lot to give. The Wizarding World would be a poorer place without you in it." He looked as if he'd bitten into a lemon. "And I'm never repeating that again, and if you tell anyone, I'll deny it and have you locked up in the mental ward of Saint Mungos."

She snorted softly. "If I told someone they wouldn't believe me anyhow, so I think your dirty little secret is safe, Malfoy."

He nodded, a slight, reluctant bob of the head, and turned to go, grasping at the cold, brass door handle. He paused however, plucking a thin black object from the lock, and Hermione tensed, every muscle in her shoulder protesting.

He twirled the twisted bobby pin between his fingers and his eyes flickered between it and the girl for a long moment. "Wait three days then try again at nine in the morning," he said quietly, dropping the pin. It made no noise on the carpet. "And make sure you hide it somewhere the House Elves won't find it." And with that he opened the door and began to leave.

"Malfoy," she started, standing on stringy legs. He stopped short, looking back at her out of the corner of his eyes. "I… I'm sorry about your father."

For a moment she thought he was going to snap at her, scorn her for her sympathy, but instead his chin trembled and his eyes grew glassy as two marbles.

"Thank you."

He was gone before she could say anything more.

Hermione didn't move for some time, the events of the last week—no, _two_ weeks—and what was to come weighing heavily down on her. Tears running free, struggling against sobs, she threw herself onto the bed and had a good cry. The feel and smell of the sheets was strange and unfamiliar—feminine and flowery, the silk loosing its heat all too quickly, cold riches that provided no meager sliver of comfort.

After a while she sat up and wiped the salt from her cheeks then retreated to the bathroom, though not before picking up the bobby pin Draco had dropped and stashing it away back where she'd found it—a hairpin would garner no suspicion amongst other hairpins.

The girl in the mirror was a puffy-eyed, pathetic looking little thing, and the rush of hot water over her skin was a welcome sensation. It soaked through her skin, penetrating her muscles and warming her down to her aching bones. She spared a worry for bandage, but when she found that it magically repelled water she scrubbed away freely. The small room filled with white steam and the smell of rosemary, oats, and goat's milk. Though she wasn't dirty, she felt as if the lightly-perfumed soap was washing days' worth of grime down the drain trapped inside fragile, pearly bubbles—she washed her feelings down with the froth.

Fighting things was not going to help Harry or herself right now. She was not going to bow down and lick Voldemort's feet like one of his many groveling dogs, but there was nothing to be accomplished by being dragged to the dining room kicking and screaming either. She closed her eyes, letting the shower spray warmly over her face, and imagined that her fears, insecurities and anxieties were being washed away, leaving behind more than glowing skin—she would face Voldemort with her head held high. She was not a child, no longer a naïve schoolgirl; she was an intelligent eighteen year-old young woman fighting for everything good and just in the world! Even if she were having dinner with the devil she would not let him see how afraid she was.

The girl who got out of the bath looked much better the girl who had gotten into it; her skin now flushed, the circles under her eyes lightened a bit. She began drying herself with a fluffy blue towel, swiping her hand over the mirror to clear away the fog clinging to it.

Two big green tennis-ball eyes stared back at her through the reflection.

Hermione shrieked in alarm, jerking back so abruptly that she bashed her hip harshly into the corner of the vanity and fell back into the tub, sprawling like a stunned spider. Ignoring the hot pain blossoming on her tailbone, she drew back further still until her back was pressed against the tiles of the wall, panting harshly, her eyes wide and shoulder burning as if flame licked along the seam of her wound.

The House Elf gasped. "Oh, Jilly is so sorry, miss! She didn't mean to scare you, please don't be angry at Jilly!"

"Jilly," Hermione repeated, whispering. She licked her lips, panic fading and muscles relaxing with every gasp. "Jilly… It-it's okay, Jilly, you just startled me. N-next time let me know that you're here, instead of just s-sneaking." She lifted one hand to her chest. "Nearly gave me a heart-attack…"

The House Elf shook her head, ears flopping wildly. "Jilly is so sorry, Miss! So sorry!"

"Apology accepted, Jilly," the witch reassured, standing unsteadily and wrapping the towel firmly around her. "Why are you here?"

"Jilly is here to help miss get ready for dinner with the Dark Master!" Jilly said perkily.

Hermione felt her mood darken. Slavery, it was so disgusting! To hold a living, breathing, sentient creature under such a bond was cruel and inhumane—though, of course, Voldemort was certainly cruel and inhumane. Were she not a prisoner herself she would have quickly launched into a passionate argument about getting rights and freedom and wages for House Elves, but she forced herself to hold her tongue. What could the imprisoned say to the imprisoned?

"Thank you," she said, "But I don't need any help. I am perfectly capable of doing things on my own."

Jilly looked absolutely scandalized, planting her twig-like hands on stained, rag-clad hips. "Oh yes, Miss does!" the little creature exclaimed, wagging one long forefinger up at Hermione. "Miss is still recovering from her injury! She will not be able to lace her dress or lift her hands to take care of her hair!"

Her hair? What did she need to do her hair for? She would concede herself to wearing the dress, but she wasn't looking to impress. "I don't care about any of that, so your help is not necessary."

"Miss does! Miss absolutely does! Jilly is not taking no for an answer! Oh no, she is not! Miss will look nothing less than her best!" The House Elf squealed indignantly and with extraordinary bossiness. Jilly clamped a strong hand onto Hermione's towel and dragged her out of the bathroom to shove her onto the springy bed. Hermione tightly clutched at the towel lest it slid down too far and her breasts slip out.

Jilly would not be deterred by the young woman's protests, avoiding hand and ignoring insult, and even going so far as to tell Hermione, "Miss's should not frown! Her face will stick like that!" Which only served to make Hermione's scowl deepen.

The dress was tight against her plump little breasts, heavy on her thighs, and nearly unbearable at the waist. With dexterous fingers Jilly braided the unruly, hart-brown hair at the young woman's temples and pulled it back with a pearl and amethyst clip. Identical jewels were hung around her neck and slung on her wrists and ears. Hermione let them sit there, which pleased Jilly—however when Draco arrived to "escort" her, she tore the pin from her hair, and broke the strings of pearls and gems hanging from her limbs and threw them to the carpet, where they scattered and rolled in all directions. She wiped the cakey lipstick away with her wrist, and left Jilly shrieking in indignation until that her nose resembled a strawberry, high-pitched voice muffled by the wood of the door as Malfoy closed it. His face showed no outward reaction, but his eyes glimmered with some amusement.

Hermione crossed her arms, gently stroking her bandaged wound with her thumb, her eyes fierce and her hair frizzed and defiant against the twin braids that bound it. Malfoy didn't speak and neither did she, the atmosphere was heavy and sticky with a sense of impending doom. They were, in a word, walking into the dragon's lair. She trailed slightly behind Malfoy, unsure of the exact whereabouts of their destination. Malfoy Manor was surprisingly maze-like; hallways skewered off at odd angles and they seemed to double back on themselves more than once. It reminded her of the Burrow, but instead of growing upward like the Weasley family home, the manor expanded horizontally. The walls were surprisingly warm-colored, not dark and oozing blood like something out of a cinema—people obviously lived here. Portraits and antiques dotted the walls—crossed swords, family crests of lines long died out, blonde and brunette ancestors that watched the two youths pass with curious stares (some of them were so old that they didn't move like most Wizarding portraits), and extravagant candelabras. One chain-covered door shook in its frame, the moans of a ghoul emitting from between the cracks.

The dining room and the dining hall turned out to be two entirely different rooms—the hall, obviously, being only used when hosting a large number of guests. Voldemort was waiting in the dining room.

Hermione had hoped for a moment to breathe and steady her nerves one last time, but Malfoy opened the carved oak doors without hesitation.

She had been somehow expecting an extravagantly long table, where Voldemort would be situated far away from her at one end and she at the other, but the table was small, not much larger than the table she had had back home with her parents. It was appallingly close quartered—she would be within reaching distance of the Dark Lord.

Voldemort was not sitting at the table; instead he stood with his back to them, gazing thoughtfully into the fireplace as best Hermione could tell from this angle. His robe was a reddish-black smudge against the light of the fire, the highlights of his face yellowish-gold as if someone had coated him with fairy dust.

"My Lord," Malfoy greeted, bowing deeply.

"Thank you, Draco," the serpentine man said quietly. "You are dismissed. Go back to your mother."

The young man bowed again and turned away, his eyes clashing with Hermione's for a fraction of a second before the door was pulled shut. The lock snapped forebodingly into place. Silence reigned for several long moments. Hermione was unwilling to be the first to speak up, though the smell and sight of the platters of food plucked viciously at her resolve. It was a spectacular offering: brightly colored vegetables, a cornucopia of plump fruits, an entire roasted piglet complete with red apple gag, mashed potatoes, crackers and cheese and caviar, a golden-brown buttered bird she suspected was peacock rather than chicken, warm brown gravy in a silver server, salad and vinaigrette, and a tall bottle of French red wine. She swallowed, unable to keep herself from salivating even with a psychopathic mass-murdering wizard in the room.

Finally, Voldemort made the first move, turning to face her in an elegant swirl of fabric. Hermione's breath hitched as fire-red eyes locked into her own, but she didn't withdraw, instead straightening her shoulders and meeting his stare though her insides quivered with suppressed fear.

"Miss Granger," he said, extending one palm to gesture toward the table. "Sit, please."

His politeness unnerved her, but she did as requested after a moment's hesitance. Her shoes, akin to ballerina flats, tapped softly on the tile. Voldemort, thankfully, was not so chivalrous as to pull her chair out for her, though he did wait until she was seated before sitting down himself. He did not speak again, but began putting food on his plate, and after a moment Hermione did the same.

She feared that the food was laced with poison or worse—Veritaserum, but her stomach would not be denied. She was ravenous enough that any feelings of awkwardness were muted, but she ate slowly, cutting up her chicken and vegetables into bite-sized pieces before slowly chewing them. Voldemort showed no interest in actually eating, picking idly at his food whist staring intensely at her. He poured the wine into two winking glasses, but Hermione did not drink yet.

Finally he spoke again, the suddenness of his voice making her flinch. "There is no need to stand on ceremony, Miss Granger. You have not eaten anything of substance in a fortnight, and there is no one here you need impress."

Hermione regarded him warily, lifting her eyes from her plate. "That's no excuse to eat like a pig. Besides, if I chose to stuff my face I would be more likely to make myself sick than gain any nourishment."

He inclined his head at an angle. "Indeed." he murmured over the wine.

As she lifted another forkful of potatoes to her mouth, she realized something.

"Why are you watching me eat?" she asked, smothering the alarm that arose in her.

He inhaled then, seeming to shiver out of a trance and draw back into reality. The nearly empty glass of wine was set aside, the burgundy pigment stuck to the sides giving it a bruised appearance. "Forgive me," he said, "The sense of taste is just one of several things I had to sacrifice in my journeys as a youth. It… pleases me to know you find the fare palatable."

Hermione found that creepy, and it was odd to learn that the immortal, inhuman Dark Lord missed something as ordinary as flavors. It made him seem… more touchable, somehow, took him off his pedestal and stripped away a small sliver of what made him more myth than man. She didn't like it.

"Oh." There was not much else to be said.

He leaned back in his chair, folding his long, bony hands on the edge of the table as he took her in. "Hermione Jean Granger." he said, enunciating slowly and clearly. His red eyes were eerily lamp-like, as if someone had taken the eyes of a cat and implanted them in his head. "I have been researching you, Miss Granger. You are, I find, a rather fascinating creature. Eighteen years old, top of your class, eleven OWLs—O's in everything but Defense, in which you received an E, and you did not take Divination. It may entertain you to know that you scored higher on your Charms OWL than I did at that age."

Indeed, despite herself, Hermione felt a proud flutter rise in her chest—it was not every day one bested Lord Voldemort in anything (unless your name was Harry Potter), even a young Voldemort—but it didn't live long. With each word he spoke, each fact he threw at her, she grew steadily paler.

Voldemort continued. "Born to Daniel and Emma Granger, both Muggles, both dentists, and you nearly had a younger sister, but your mother miscarried. In your first year you solved Severus' riddle, thus allowing Harry Potter to move forward to the chamber where Quirrell was attempting to retrieve the Philospoher's Stone. In your second year you were petrified by my basilisk, though it is thanks to you that Harry found out what Slytherin's Monster was at all and was able to act accordingly. In your fourth year you were responsible for teaching Harry the spell that enabled him to escape me. In your fifth year it was your cleverness that allowed Harry and all your friends to get into the Department of Mysteries and to get back out, and I hear that you pulled a very Slytherin trick on one Dolores Umbridge that traumatized her for life. In your sixth year you fought against my Death Eaters' invasion, even successfully warding off Fenrir Greyback—a mindless savage, but powerful in his own right and a man not easily impeded by ordinary wizards and witches. And I am also willing to bet good money on it being _your_ mind that enabled Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley and yourself to penetrate the Ministry. Would you like me to go on?"

Hermione's mouth opened and closed several times, suddenly dry as if she had swallowed a spoonful of salt. "How do you know all that?" she whispered hoarsely.

"I have my sources, of course, Miss Granger."

"Surely the leader of the Dark has better things to do with his time than look up personal information on a Mudblood."

He chuckled darkly. "One cannot spend all hours of the day strategizing. I have never heard one your kind actually referring to yourself as a Mudblood before."

She jutted her chin out. "I'm a Mudblood and proud of it."

His finger circled his glass, making it ring musically. "Of that I have no doubt. Young Draco has had many an entertaining story to blither on about concerning you. However, having filthy blood is nothing to be proud of."

"I think the question of whether or not my heritage is dirty is a matter of perspective. Many of the truths we cling to depend greatly on our own point of view."

His cat-like pupils narrowed, his eyes sharpening on her acutely, and she fisted her hands on her lap to keep from twisting them anxiously.

"Perhaps." he conceded softly. "Is there anything else you have to say or ask, Miss Granger?" There was a challenging tone in his high-pitched voice, a slight warning for her to be silent and eat her meal obediently.

"Several things," she said. She would not abide his warning tone; Voldemort was not a person she had respect for as an authority figure—the respect she held for him was the respect a person held for a deadly animal; the respect one held for the man robbing his or her home.

"Please, do not hold me in suspense." The Dark Lord said.

"Why am I here?"

He cocked his head. "Certainly you know why I brought you to the manor?"

"Yes, I know why I'm being held prisoner, but I don't know why you've invited me to dinner and provided me with a room instead of leaving me in a cell with the others."

"But you are not like the others, are you, Miss Granger? You're different. _Special_."

"Because I am Harry's friend," she stated with a slight nod.

"Among other things, but, yes, that is first and foremost. Harry is, without a doubt, expecting you to be tormented and tortured, and while I find that most appealing, it would only serve to make him angry. I am familiar with anger. I know how it can be some men's greatest weakness and others' greatest strength. Unfortunately," his expression soured, "As much as I would like to cause him suffering, Harry's anger is his strength in battle. Desperation only makes him fight harder and is, I realize, a mistake I've made regarding him for quite some time." One long forefinger rose, jutting out of his hand like a broken bone. "Relief, on the other hand is always a weakness. Relief makes a man let down his guard and forget his troubles. Relief is a _distraction_. One moment of distraction is all I need to kill Harry Potter for good.

"Also, I digress," his hand reached for her slowly, and Hermione froze in fear, her heart rate skyrocketing as he lightly traced his fingertips along the tattered braid at her temple. His fingernails were long, closer to claws than human nails, and up close his skin seemed more a shade of very pale periwinkle than actual white, his veins and arteries deep indigo. "It would be a waste to let such a brilliant mind sit and rot. When I win this war I am sure I can find some use for you, regardless of… _opinions_ concerning blood. That is assuming you survive, of course."

When he pulled away to return to his plate she could finally breathe again, ribs straining against the cage of the dress.

"And…" she began breathlessly, "Why did you bring me to dinner?"

"Curiosity." He replied just as softly.

The still healing wound at her armpit burned. The bodice was not a corset, but it was difficult to get an entire lungful of air. Which reminded her…

"Why did you want me to wear this dress?"

Voldemort's lipless mouth curved into a mocking smirk. "You don't like it? I thought you'd look pretty."

She couldn't keep herself from scowling, even if it risked getting her cursed. "Yeah right. I don't believe that for a second."

His smirk fell and he rose from his seat, making Hermione jerk back in her chair loudly, the wood echoing as it scraped against the floor. Voldemort's hand on the arm kept her from moving back any further, however, and her eyes darted madly between his face and the finger he slowly, sensually, drew down her cheek.

"You wear that dress," he began softly, wrapping his hand firmly around her throat, watching her brown eyes dilate, "Because I say you do. You will wear _whatever I say you will wear_ because you are my prisoner. You wash with the soap I provide; you eat what I put on your plate, and you do whatever I tell you to do because I. _own_. you, Miss Granger. You will _also_ wear whatever I say you will wear because when setting a trap, one's prey does not step into the iron jaws when what you are offering is maggoty meat. You will be kept lovely, healthy and comfortable at _my generosity_ because even Harry is not so foolish as to fight for an empty husk of a girl."

Her eyes flashed in defiance, rosy pink lower lip puckering outward. "You know, you could have summed that up much more quickly by just admitting to being a control-freak. _Aah_—!" His hold on her throat tightened, choking her. Fear rang in her ears like bells, water rising to her eyes. She could not stop her instinctive reaction, hands coming up to claw helplessly at his bony wrist.

He hissed, a harsh, windy sound like water being poured on a fire. "You would do well, Miss Granger, not to speak to me in such a disrespectful manner again. You are not so valuable that I will hesitate to kill you if you insist on pushing me." He rubbed his thumb thoughtfully over the cartilaginous ridges of her windpipe.

"Such a lovely neck. It looks so delicate, but…" he squeezed hard for one horribly long moment, and Hermione's eyes rolled up in her head as her vertebrae curved under the pressure. Her larynx felt as if it would snap and cave in. "Yes, it would be quite difficult to break you."

"G-g-go t-to h-he-ell." She gasped.

Voldemort's eyes darkened to a much more sinister red and now he clenched both hands around her throat.

Hermione's head spun. Suddenly hyper-aware of her senses, her vision clouded and she could feel her pulse beating away at his thumbs like there was a ticking bubble trapped under her skin. It felt like the fluids in her brain cavity were sloshing around, and she could suddenly smell the savory food with sharp clarity, hear the crackle of the fireplace roaring in her ears like a beast, and her breath was tinged with the taste of iron that came before bleeding, as if she'd run too far, too fast.

"Do you have a death wish, Mudblood?"

No, she did not really have a death wish; but if she were dead then Harry wouldn't come for her and thus would not fall into Voldermort's trap. She had no desire to die, but if it would allow Harry to defeat Voldemort, if it kept Harry safe then she would gladly welcome Death like an old friend. Oh, Merlin, the Dark Lord's angry eyes were consuming her, drowning her in visions of blood and fire… Harry was the most important thing! As long as Harry was-Harry was—

Then, suddenly, she could breathe again, bosom heaving as she gasped and coughed, reaching up to gently rub the deep bruise circling her neck like a collar. She sagged in her chair like a puppet whose strings had been cut, tears falling in a steady stream onto her lap—they glistened golden, reflecting the light of the fire.

A string of hissing syllables made her look up, trembling violently, and even the sight of the enormous viper Nagini slithering between the platters of food couldn't freeze her in place.

With a Parseltongue command, the snake lunged.

Fangs sank deeply into Hermione's injured shoulder, the propelled weight of the snake sending the chair and the young witch sitting it in falling back. A blood-curdling scream ripped itself from her mouth, her back jarring against the floor horribly as Nagini's mouth contracted, pumping venom into her body. Oh, she could _feel_ it: warm, slippery, and thick like syrup, blazing through her veins—every tiny little branch all the way up to the outermost layers of skin—as if it would eat her through and leave her as biological soup of unraveled cells and proteins on the marble floor.

Nagini withdrew, the removal of its flesh-covered fangs as painful as the tearing of daggers, and left behind two bloody, but comparatively small holes. No matter how abnormally large its size, like any ordinary serpent Nagini's fangs still were designed to leave small puncture wounds to keep venom from leaking… unfortunately.

Hermione curled onto her side, frantically trying to stifle her sobs and shrieks of pain.

"I _told_ you that I would not tolerate your cheek, Hermione. Lord Voldemort does not repeat himself." the Dark Lord said, his voice unnervingly gentle. "Your thoughts are disgusting."

The sound of her name falling from his lips made her shudder. He had no right to speak to her so familiarly, so intimately! She heaved a great, hiccupping sob, feeling nausea rise in her throat. Her mouth tasted of metal. The pain was shortening her breath, limiting her cries down into drawn-out whimpers and wails. She should have remembered to avoid looking him in the eye. She should not have forgotten that he was a master Legilmens, not for one moment.

His foot entered her teary vision and she helplessly recoiled from his kneeling form as he set the untouched wineglass on the floor.

"You have caused me a great amount of trouble, Hermione." He said, sweeping fallen curls away from her face. "Not only did you steal me away from Harry, but you've been the mind behind all that has thwarted me from destroying Potter these past years—but no more.

"Wormtail had something _very_ interesting to tell me the other day: about a unique map in Harry Potter's possession. It seems that this map is of Hogwarts and it displays the true name of everyone within, no matter how well disguised. Although I am sure he will prove simple to capture without you by his side, Harry will have a difficult time locating the Malfoy's Manor all by his lonesome. Whilst I am a patient man I do prefer the path of least resistance. In a few days time, you shall be moved to a room at Hogwarts. Not as a student, of course, but it is certainly only a matter of time before dear Harry spots you on his map and comes running to your aid and into my grasp."

He stood then, the hem of his robe brushing lightly against her, and left her a wretched heap on the floor, his snake following like a loyal dog.

"Do make sure you taste the wine, Hermione. It is a good vintage and it may just save your life."_  
_

* * *

_Author's Afterthoughts:_

_Chapter two originally had a few more scenes… but then it would have been bigger than I think a fanfiction chapter has any business being (unless you're one of those incredible people who do epic 20K-word chaps. You're all insane)._

_Spotlight: Revelin by Elizabeth England. Haven't read it? GO READ IT!_

_If you read, please review, for I would certainly do so for you!  
~Megii _


	3. The Highest Room of the Tallest Tower

**_The Ivory Tower_**

I didn't intend to post this for a while yet, but I figured a celebratory update was in order! After two years of failed interviews and sitting on my butt, I have a part-time job! Huzzah! Let's hope I can keep it! o.o

Two reviewers noticed that Pirates of the Carribean: Curse of the Black Pearl was the inspiration for the dinner scene in the last chapter. It made me so incredibly happy that people spotted that! And another person listened to the music I'd chosen while reading! I adore all of my reviewers, but you guys are especially awesome. This is for you guys.

On to the story…

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_3. The Highest Room of the Tallest Tower_

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_Through centuries of scourges and disasters, brought about by your code of morality, you have cried that your code had been broken, that the scourges were punishment for breaking it, that men were too weak and too selfish to spill all the blood it required. You damned men, you damned existence, you damned this earth, but never dared to question your code. Your victims took the blame and struggled on, with your curses as reward for their martyrdom - while you went on crying that your code was noble, but human nature was not good enough to practice it. And no one rose to ask the question: Good? - by what standard?_

_~Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand_

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It was three days until she saw Voldemort again after the horrific dinner affair. Hermione knew he was coming because the House Elf, Jilly, had popped in and forced her into another extravagant dress—this time of Slytherin green, royal blue, and silver. It was, blessedly, not the pain that the last dress had been, soft and light on her shoulders with an empire waist that it did not aggravate her healing body. Bright shades of violet, crimson, and yellow circled her neck. The area where Nagini had bitten her was a mess, swollen and bright red, hot to the touch and incredibly tender. The punctures oozed clear liquid as fluid swarmed to the enormous haematomic bruise, her lymphnodes so swollen she feared she would choke on them.

Twice as determined as before, Jilly forced silver bangles on Hermione's wrists and ankles, and she knew with cold horror that they were not simple jewelry—they were shackles.

Voldemort arrived with Severus Snape trailing him like a shadow. They entered without knocking, and Hermione's heart fell through the floor—she had no chance to try to use the bobby pin to escape again. Though it had been three days, nine o'clock was two hours away. For now, at least, freedom was lost to her.

"Good morning, Miss Granger," the Dark Lord said with uncanny optimism.

Hermione's eyes flicked to him then to Snape.

The professor did not look well, the curve of his mouth grimmer than she had ever seen it, his hair still stringy but sharply cut. His eyes and cheeks were sunken, his flesh sagging as if it were detaching from his cheekbones. His nose had grown more crooked—surely it had been broken over the past few months, though how she could not guess. The very sight of him, his very presence, made her incredibly angry. This was the man who had murdered Dumbledore. Despite his cruelty in the classroom she had always defended him against Harry and Ron's accusations only for him to turn out to be as nasty and horrible a person as they always insisted. Hermione felt more betrayed by him than Harry or Ron ever could; she had placed her trust and faith in the man whereas her friends had not.

Voldemort's silken voice interrupted her boiling thoughts.

"It is customary to return a greeting, Miss Granger."

She looked at him but turned her gaze away quickly, lips thinning.

"Miss Granger," his tone was warning.

"No," she would not greet him. There was nothing good about this morning and she would not bend to him. She was a Gryffindor, she was brave—the heart of a lion!—and she was stubborn. She was not afraid of pain or of death, and she would fight Voldemort every painful step of the way.

"Say it, Hermione. Tell me 'good morning.'" He hissed.

She remained stonily silent.

From the edges of her vision she noticed his arm move. Alarmed, she turned her head toward the two black-clad men.

Voldemort cast a spell she didn't recognize, and smoky grey and green tendrils snaked from the tip of his wand, twining and growing towards her. She scrambled backwards and lifted her hands warily, defensively. The slithering mist attached itself to the bangles and solidified into a glittering green and silver rope. She swallowed dryly, her wide eyes following the braid up to its tasseled end, which was held in the Dark Lord's spidery hand. He smirked at her and yanked on the cord.

Hermione bit back a yelp, stumbling forward and tripping on the hem of the dress so that she fell to her knees before him, dress folds aflutter. She didn't bother holding back her glare—she wanted him to _know_ how much she hated him in that moment. She stared defiantly into his waxen, alien visage. Leashed and pulled around like an unruly animal! She was a human being, damn it, not a dog!

She trembled with barely contained anger and stood, throwing her aching shoulders back. Snape's dark eyebrows slowly rose as if an invisible string pulled them, though his expression remained carefully blank.

"I am waiting, Hermione, and I am growing impatient." The Dark Lord said lowly.

"Why don't you just do things the easy way and use the Imperius Curse on me?" she asked bitterly.

"Short of making you kill your friends and family I will not break you by using the Imperius Curse; you are too strong-minded. Come now," he grasped her chin to make her look up at him, "Just two words and a name. 'Good morning'…"

She shivered under his touch. His hands were cold and up close she could see that his skin was bizarrely textured—the tiny ridges that _should_ wrinkle one's knuckles and draw lines between individual hairs were patterned like scales on a snake, though no actual scales were to be had. She resolutely kept her eyes away from his slit-pupil stare, focusing on the flat, reptilian nostrils positioned above his mouth. He had lips, after all, she noticed: very thin and pale, nearly nonexistent.

"_Say it_."

She pulled her chin away, twisting her head as far to the side as the bruised flesh of her neck would allow. He hissed into her ear, breath making her curls fan lightly in all directions. She could smell what he'd eaten that morning, though she couldn't identify it. His presence was almost overwhelming; tall, powerful, and predatory to the point where she felt suffocated just by being in the same vicinity.

"My Lord," Snape interrupted softly, "Forgive me, but I do feel the need to remind you that we _are_ on a schedule. Formidable though they are, I do not trust the Carrows to not let Hogwarts fall into the hands of rebellious students in my absence. That aside, Miss Granger is among the most stubborn and self-righteous Griffindors I've ever come across. Unfortunately, I don't believe you will manage to wrest a morning greeting without the use of one of the Unforgivables on her or on a victim placed before her." She could sense his scornful eyes on her and it made the hair on her arms prickle. His next words were spoken with deep mocking. "She has such a big heart. Using the torture curse on Ollivander or the Lovegood girl could possibly even prove more effective than torturing her directly."

Hermione stiffened, feeling as though someone had poured ice down her back. It was chillingly true, and she hated Snape for reading her so well. It was one thing to be tormented, but to see someone being tortured _because_ of you…

"Well now, that _is_ good to know… isn't it, Hermione?" Voldemort drawled. "How would you like to pay a visit to Miss Lovegood?"

She looked at him in horror, feeling as though she'd been punched in the stomach. His expression was full of sick amusement.

"Ah, but you are right, Severus, we do not have time. I will have to collect my greeting later. Administer the potion."

"Potion?" She squeaked, stepping a step back in alarm.

"It is only a strong Drought of Peace to keep you from making a fuss."

A strong Drought of Peace… why couldn't he just be forthright and call it a tranquilizer?

Snape drew a vial full of turquoise-colored liquid out of his robes. As soon as he pulled the stopper, silvery fumes swirled into the air, and Hermione scampered back like flames were licking at her feet.

"No! No, no, I won't take it!" She cried, but a sharp tug on the rope had her stumbling forward again.

"Yes, you will." The Dark Lord said it as if it were as obvious a fact as the sky was blue.

She fought and thrashed against his hold, but Nagini's bite and the still-healing wound at her shoulder impeded her, as did the shackles at her wrists and ankles as they suddenly snapped together. Unbalanced, she fell onto her bum at the foot of the bed, cushioned by the thick green carpet, and Snape descended on her like the night, nothing but black and a sunken, pale face filling her vision. He pressed her shoulders against the brass bed frame and lifted the Draught of Peace to her lips. Despite its name, she knew it would taste foul.

She closed her mouth against the potion, whipping her head this way and that, but Snape got his thumb and forefinger around her nose, cutting off her air. She held her breath until her ears popped and her diaphragm trembled, but all too soon her jaw threw itself open and the former Potions professor's hand was there, tipping the blue liquid into her mouth. She gagged on the first half as droplets began to slide down the wrong tube and into her lungs instead of her stomach. It was horrible, tasting of fermented valerian and she felt as if she'd inhaled the Vaporub her parents would rub on her chest when she was sick as a child, and she coughed most of the concoction back up.

Snape scowled and shoved his fingers in her mouth to prevent her from closing it again—disgusting! He had knobby knuckles and dirty fingernails; his flesh tasted of herbs, flobberworms, and soap—and poured the rest of the potion down her throat when her coughs lightened. She had little choice but to swallow it. As soon as she did Snape tore himself away, wiping his saliva-covered fingers vigorously on a handkerchief. Hermione spat the remnants of the Draught of Peace onto the floor, trying to rid herself of the foul taste of Snape's fingers and hellbore.

Her chest heaved with the remnants of panic, but already the potion was beginning to take effect, her breath. Her heart rate slowed, anxiety fading to mere nervousness and she knew that soon that too would vanish. Her wounds hurt as much as ever, but she was less concerned about them than before, and the wariness and distrust she held the two men in the spring-colored, _fleur de lis-_wallpapered room dropped away into nothingness.

Rule-abiding goody two-shoes that she was (usually), Hermione had never been drunk, but she supposed it felt something like how she felt now: numb, blank and an undercurrent of quiet joy seeping through her entire being accompanied by a faintly lingering desire to cry.

"How long until it wears off, Severus?" Voldemort asked.

"Only a couple of hours, my Lord. It is a strong dosage, but not a long-lasting one. It should flush itself from her system when we reach the castle—you did want her to be alert for her… presentation."

"Exceptional work as always. I am pleased, Severus, very pleased. Come, Miss Granger."

Hermione didn't move from her sitting place. She didn't want to move, she was quite content here, thankyouverymuch…

"Hermione, stand up _now_."

Well, all right, she would stand up. It wasn't as if she minded and he sounded upset. She would not look up at him though, she didn't mind him right now, but that didn't mean she liked him, no, not at all.

As they made their way out of the manor she nearly fell from a misstep on several occasions, only to be yanked upright by a sharp tug on the rope. It took so much energy to try to think that she was sure smoke would be coming out of her ears were it physically possible. The world was muffled and slightly tipsy, blurred at the edges. The shadows seemed darker, the light brighter, her skin warmer.

Those at Hogwarts would not take this well. She knew many members of Dumbledore's Army were still attending. Were they fighting, in their own way? Surely they were. Were they worried about Luna? Did they still have faith in Harry?

Hermione had faith in Harry. Despite knowing it was a burden on his shoulders that he didn't want, Harry was a beacon of hope shining through the darkness that was growing to cover the Wizarding World like a festered scab. Harry would push through because he knew someone had to, and if that person had to be himself then he would take on the challenge rather than letting another struggle through it. Hermione would never lose faith in Harry, never lose hope, not until she held his rigor mortis riddled corpse in her arms and felt for a pulse.

Voldemort lifted the hood of his cloak over his hairless head when they stepped out of the manor, hiding his face in indigo shadow.

Still birthing in the east, the dawning sunlight was a blessing, peeking delicately through the cloudy smears of grey, white, pink and lavender. To the west, deep blue still prevailed, the star Betelgeuse glimmering weakly. Hermione reveled in the sight; were she not drugged she knew would have been aching in relief. How beautiful the sky was! Her steamy-white puffs of breath curled and evaporated in the air before her face, chill temperatures stinging her lungs and snapping at her bare skin.

Snape Disapparated as soon as they crossed the threshold of the gates. Tendrils of black mist clung to Hermione's frame, as if the grounds were reluctant to let her go, but Voldemort yanked her to him, clamping a hand tightly over her bicep. He glared down at her from beneath his hood, and Hermione stared dazedly up into his shadowed face. His eyes were so very red. What creature in the whole wide world had eyes of such an unnaturally occurring shade, save for those in nightmares? His face was as pale as a sun-bleached skull—the pinkness of life long gone, the yellowness of age not yet set in.

The world twisted and vanished, sucking her into a void and then spitting her back out. She pulled away from Voldemort, lifting one hand to cover her face as dizziness and nausea swirled behind her eyes. She had only a moment's reprieve, however, as he began tugging her along again, Snape trailing just before her.

Hogsmeade looked like a gingerbread village, brown walls and iced eaves, candy-bright clothing standing out against the overhanging gloom, peppermint red, mint green, and buttery yellow. But no number of bright colors could drown out the melancholy that permeated the village like a thick fog. People gasped and hushed at the sight of Snape and the hooded Dark Lord, fleeing the streets to cower in alleyways and duck into buildings. Mothers clutched their children close and men leapt apart as if the very act of speaking would condemn them. Death Eaters emerged seemingly out of the woodwork and out of the cracks in stone and bowed reverently. Eyes followed Hermione, some curious, some horrified and others predatory.

They passed most of Hogsmeade's shops as they walked. Zonko's was shut down and boarded up, broken, unmoving toys lingering in the display windows. Voldemort's destination proved to be the Hogsmeade Railway Station, the same station that the Hogwart's Express pulled into several times a year, and where a carriage awaited them. By that time Hermione was visibly shivering against the cold, her teeth chattering as if she'd eaten a box of Ice Mice. She clutched at the skin of her elbows, her shoulders hunched as she tried to retain her body heat.

She had ridden on the back of thestrals twice, but this was her first time being able to see one. Harnessed to the carriage like a common horse, it was hideous, like the blackened, skeletal remains of a bat-winged Pegasus, its eyes a dead, milky blue-white, its teeth fanged instead of flat. Hermione made a stringy noise of distress and pulled against the leash binding her wrists—she didn't want to be near this creature, no matter that logic told her it wasn't a danger. She didn't want to get into the carriage with the vile, evil man that held her captive—but he pulled in return, and she stumbled into the carriage, tripping so that she was half-in half-out. Voldemort hissed in displeasure and fisted a hand in her hair, forcing her to stand on unsteady feet.

He pulled her down to sit beside him, sliding his hand out of her hair and down to caress her neck. His thumb moved slowly, rhythmically, but it was no comforting gesture, it was a threat. He may as well have been dragging the flat of a knife across her skin. She shivered and closed her eyes to block him out, turning her face away.

"The potion is wearing off too soon, Severus. Why?"

"My apologies, my Lord. It seems I have underestimated Miss Granger's magical metabolism." Snape said, seated opposite them. His hands were folded carefully in his lap.

Despite the changes in authority, it was still impossible to Apparate onto Hogwarts' grounds, thus the reason for the carriage. It was going to be a long hour and a half, trapped in here with these two wicked men.

"Of course," Snape continued thoughtfully, "It is possible she simply has a natural resistance to medication. It is not uncommon in witches and wizards with muggle ancestry."

Voldemort seemed more partial to this than Snape's previous observation. Obviously the idea of a potentially powerful Muggle-born was something he'd rather not acknowledge. Not that Hermione found that to be a surprise.

As the carriage grew closer and closer to the castle, Dementors speckled the sky like a murder of crows: black, sharp-clawed, wraith-like figures that sucked the light right out of the air. Hermione noted that the grounds were uncannily pristine, the heavy blanket of snow undisturbed by footprints, sled tracks or snowmen as it had always been in years past. It looked wrong, almost unnatural. It was imperfect in its perfection. Despite the Ministry's insistence that all the occurring changes were for the better, a school ground was not meant to look dead like this, all signs of life and childish joy erased where it should have been abundant. Hogwarts itself seemed darker than it ever had before, its soaring walls foreboding and shadowed. It was more imposing than the Shrieking Shack. Even the ice on the lake shone drearily grey.

The carriage finally stopped at the enormous oak doors of the Entrance Hall. The Drought of Peace had completely worn off by this time, and Hermione was deeply unsettled at how _unaware_ of the world she had been, how little details had escaped her and slipped through her fingers like water. She was an individual that liked to know exactly what was going on, she was, to a degree, a person who liked being in control, though she was reluctant to admit that considering who she was being forced to sit next to. There were surely very few people in the world as controlling as Lord Voldemort, and to fit into a category anywhere near him was disturbing.

The carriage door opened like a footman was waiting on the other side, but of course, there was nothing but empty air. Voldemort waved one thin hand dismissively and Snape stood and bowed gracefully before sweeping out the door. Hermione glared at the dark Headmaster out of the corner of her eye as he went by. As soon as the Potions Master had gone, however, Hermione's chin was taken into a harsh grasp and forcefully turned to face the Dark Lord. Their eyes met and she jerked her head away, but he just held her more tightly, clawed fingers fanning across her cheek. She kept her eyes resolutely on his mouth, avoiding his eyes.

"Ready to see your classmates again, Miss Granger?"

She was silent.

"Now, Miss Granger, we can do this one of two ways: You can walk into Hogwarts on your own two feet, or I can drag you inside kicking and screaming like the wretch you are."

'_Kicking and screaming_,' she thought sourly. She had promised herself that she would make things as difficult as possible for him, and she would kick and scream and bite and break things… but being brought to the Great Hall throwing a fit like a child would accomplish nothing. She was a proud Gryffindor and for all of her classmates and all the children inside that dark Hogwarts she had to be strong. It was not surrendering to walk in with her head held high and accept what awaited her. Being brave meant looking your fears in the eye and facing them.

She twisted her face out of his hold again and stood. "I'll walk."

"_Crucio_."

She fell, screaming. Her eyeballs were on fire, her intestines were being torn out of her belly like a long line of rope, her skull was cracking, splitting open where she'd hit it against the floor of the carriage, the bangles on her wrists and ankles were impossibly heavy, so heavy that they were crushing her limbs…

The curse was released quickly, and she gasped for breath, trembling violently.

"You never rise before I do without my say-so, Miss Granger. _Never_." Voldemort hissed.

'_Wow, someone has a complex,'_ she thought, '_Whom does he think he is, Rama the Fourth?'_ She shakily pushed herself to her feet, standing on jelly-kneed legs, and stared fiercely up at his glowering visage—for he was standing by now too, towering over her like a marble statue. Mentally, she couldn't help but cringe away, but she kept her feet where they were. They stared each other down for several moments, but finally it was Hermione who looked away, unable to bear looking at him. To look at him hurt her eyes.

"Come." Voldemort commanded, and she stumbled out of the carriage after him, her ankles protesting as burning snow filled her shoes.

"I am not a dog," she said in soft protest, "So stop treating me like one."

The Dark Lord chuckled breathily. "No, Miss Granger, you are not a dog… you are much lower than that."

* * *

Hogwarts' halls were silent. It made Hermione's skin crawl. There were no voices, no laughter, no indignant shouts or exclamations of homework assignments remembered too late. No footsteps. No gossiping ghosts nor Peeves the Poltergeist's irritating, mischievous cackle. The doors of the Great Hall moaned as they opened, as if in pain, and the sound of a few hundred murmurs reached Hermione's ears.

So many students were missing. Hogwarts did not have a large student populace, compared to Muggle schools—Hermione's class consisted of a mere 40 students, and the other years did not possess substantially larger numbers. The shrunken size of the Ravenclaw, Gryffindor and Hufflepuff houses was alarming. So many students had been Muggle-borns or had wanted families and were on the run. Even Slytherin was short a good dozen people. There were new faces too in every year—attendance to Hogwarts was mandatory now, not an option. Witches and wizards were not allowed to be home-schooled this year.

Hermione steeled herself with a breath and threw back her shoulders as Voldemort led her into the hall. Sound exploded into being.

"Hermione!"

"It's Granger!"

"Merlin!"

"Oh, my god!"

"Hermione!"

"_Hermione_!"

"SILENCE!" Snape roared from the teacher's table, and it was as though a Silencing Charm had been cast on the entire hall. Teeth clicked shut, people dropped limply back into their seats, and all became quiet.

Hermione looked over at the clustered remains of Gryffindor House, finding her close classmates immediately. Neville and Ginny stared at her in horror, defeat tainting the edges of their expressions. Hermione pursed her mouth and tilted her chin higher in response. They could not let her imprisonment lower their morale! They had to stay strong, as she would stay strong for them! She stared deeply into their eyes, hoping she could convey her feelings to them without words.

"Never fear, you are not hallucinating," Snape sneered from the Headmaster's chair—_Dumbledore's_ chair. "Hermione Granger is a prisoner of the Dark Lord!" Thus began a rather grand, triumphant speech. Voldemort, to her surprise, did not speak, until she realized it was because very, very few knew what he looked like, and also because it would incite mass panic if the students knew he stood among them. Monstrous though he was, she didn't think causing people to descend into mindless panic, fainting and screaming was high on his list of goals.

She was bound to a stake reminiscent of the historic witch burnings, and the forced position of her arms drew a roar of pain from between her clenched teeth. The mocking message was not missed—Purebloods had never died at the stake during the Middle Ages, they had wands to cast the Flame-Freezing Charm with, but uneducated Muggle-borns had all too often died under fire. Under Voldemort's hood she could detect a hint of cruel smirk. In defiance she gritted her teeth and swallowed her screams. The wound created by Nagini ached and she felt the skin of the still-healing wound at her armpit pop apart like the torn stitches of a ragdoll.

What Snape's speech ultimately boiled down to was this: Those of you who have fought, surrender, for your hope is stolen from you. The ways of the Dark Lord are the right ways; they will lead the Wizarding World into a new and shining era. Anyone who tries to be a hero and attempt to rescue Hermione Granger would be punished _severely_.

Hermione prayed no one tried to help her; there were already too many faces she could see had been purpled from abuse. Neville looked as though he'd recently come out of the Triwizard Tournament maze.

When Snape had finished speaking the students were herded out of the Great Hall, forced into perfect lines and steady rhythm like an old Hitler Youth Group. Behind the closed doors of classrooms, she knew that they were learning the wizarding equivalent of Nazi doctrines.

Then the teachers went too, as did Voldemort without a word, and she was left alone…

…for hours.

What could she do? Tied to a post and left to rot like a worm on a hook. She was a researcher, not a strategist—that had been Ron's specialty, chess master that he was. And just the thought of Ron brought tears to her eyes, but she stared up at the cloudy ceiling and refused to let them fall. She would not stand there with tear-tracks marring her face for all to see, though time ticked by and her legs grew tired and her thoughts made circles and loops and turned in on themselves. She recited knowledge in her head until the monotone buzz of her own mind was too much to stand any longer. Then she tried to practice meditating and Occulmency, but emptying her mind proved even more difficult than filling it.

The students returned for lunch, shooting her nervous, worried and fearful glances the entire time. A few stares were even triumphant. No one dared get close. Dinner was the same, by which time Hermione was struggling to stay awake, for there was nothing to stimulate her. The smell of food made her empty stomach clench painfully. The Gryffindor's were planning something, she noticed—they were restless.

Neville met her gaze, determination flaring in his eyes, but she shook her head minutely, silently begging him not to do anything foolish that would get him hurt. The fire in Neville dimmed as he stared at her in disbelief. He tilted his eyebrows upward earnestly, and she pursed her lips and shook her head again.

'_Please, don't.'_

The Longbottom boy's shoulders drooped and with no small amount of reluctance he turned to the table and talked in quick, hushed tones. In the end, they let themselves be ushered away without rebellion.

The Great Hall plunged into darkness.

Unlike most other children, Hermione Granger had never been afraid of the dark. She had never worried about monsters under her bed or phantoms in the closet that waited for her feet to touch the floor before grabbing her and dragging her away to be devoured. She read too much, she knew those childish notions did not exist and so was not affected by such ideas as other boys and girls her own age. The encounter with a transformed Professor Lupin had instilled wariness in her, but to say that fear had developed because of it would have been a stretch.

It was not a stretch to say she was afraid now.

Not a single torch was lit, the starlight of night hidden behind billowing black clouds. It was more than that, however. This darkness was not the same as the nighttime that cloaked bedrooms. This darkness carried something sinister in it. It perfumed the air, condensed cold and wet on her skin like sweat, muffled her ears, and blinded her. She couldn't even tell if her eyes were open or not.

The hair on the back of her neck prickled. Something or someone was watching her. The worst thing was knowing that she was completely helpless. Wounded, wandless, exhausted, bound like a virgin sacrifice for an angry sea god, if the other presence in the room chose to harm her she would have no way of stopping it.

A pair of enormous red eyes opened, glowing in the dark like two bloody lanterns, and she gasped deeply and loudly as a Sleeping Jinx hit her full in the face and she descended into unconsciousness.

* * *

Hermione Jean Granger stood before an enormous, stained glass window. It was twice as high as she was tall and easily two meters wide, split down the middle with a black iron hinge. Bright, wonderful, warming sunlight streamed through the glass, casting a glittering rainbow of color across the young witch's form: gold and red, purple and green, white and blue. It depicted an enormous, multi-colored Celtic knot entrapping a dragon and a laburnum tree. When she had first awoken, the dragon had bared its white teeth and spat orange tongues of flame at her, violet at their cores, but it shortly grew bored and went back to dozing in the sunlight, emerald scales glistening.

She recognized the room as the same tower she and Harry had rescued Sirius Black from at the end of their third year. The window she had unlocked from the outside so long ago rested on the opposite side of the room, much smaller, and its diamond-patterned panes were uncolored. The room was in much finer shape than it had been in their third year, then it had just been an empty cell. It was still a cell, really, though it had now been finely furbished with a bed, fireplace, reading nook, wardrobe and a tiny attached bathroom all set in neutral brown tones. The two windows were the only ways out, and the fall would be far. Without magic, there would be no surviving such a fall.

'_Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your long hair,_' she thought.

The sun was setting on the Forbidden Forest's evergreen rim, dying the sky in shades of peach, grayish-lavender, and gold. The Dementors, whose visible presence seemed to fade in the daytime, were returning to their shadowy, wispy existence, and their black cloaks grew darker with each minute that passed, though they still looked more ghost-like than anything else.

The dark, flying form that split the caging ring of Dementors, however, was another thing entirely.

Lord Voldemort.

Man was not meant to fly unassisted like that. It completely defied logic, even wizarding logic, which was iffy at best. Magic had laws, and Voldemort's flight defied every one of them. As he grew closer she remembered how she had seen the unnatural flight for the first time: when she had been disguised as Harry as they fled Privet Drive in pairs. It seemed a lifetime ago. She had been afraid, so very afraid and determined, and she had only glimpsed the Dark Lord for a moment before he veered away to chase the real Harry, but through her fear there was a twinge of awe and wonder. It wasn't fair that someone so evil should discover something so wonderful.

Now, however, as Voldemort's flying form grew nearer still—his destination obviously her tower—Hermione only felt disgust, filling her mouth with its bitter flavor.

The stained glass window threw itself open violently. Buttery yellow laburnum petals fell from the tree and out of the frame as it opened. The dragon lifted its head, emitting a curl of smoke. Hermione tried to resolve to hold her ground, but the Dark Lord descended like an enormous raptor and she couldn't help but stumble back as he landed, bringing the biting winter cold and smell of pine with him, his robe fluttering softly around his feet.

"Good evening." he said softly.

Hermione averted her eyes and was silent. His red gaze seared the side of her head and her hands sought the still-wet braid that fell over her shoulder.

"We have been through this before, Miss Granger. You will return my greetings." Voldemort said coolly.

"Will you go away if I do?" she asked snappishly.

"No."

"Then I don't see any reason to bother."

He took her chin and lifted her head until their eyes locked. A firm pressure pushed down on her mind.

'_Say it_.'

She quivered, fighting the command.

'_Say it!_'

"Evening." she whispered shortly. Satisfaction spread over his face and she pulled away, eyes glistening with shame. If only she was as strong-willed as Harry, she would have been able resist.

"How are you finding your accommodations?"

"You have a strange sense of humor."

Though she refrained from looking at him, she could hear the slight surprise in his voice. "Explain."

"Really, 'the princess will be up the stairs in the highest room of the tallest tower,'" she said mockingly with a wide gesture of her arms, "You even have me guarded by a dragon."

His eyes narrowed. "Unintentional… but the irony is not lost on me, I assure you."

She wrapped her hands around her shoulders, hiding her breasts. The large window was still open, and she was clad only in a powder blue nightdress. Her skin tightened and prickled into gooseflesh. Her ears stung with cold. "I don't understand why you're even here. I'm visible on the Marauder's Map and all you have to do is bide your time until Harry comes for me. I don't see why you're bothering me with your company."

His robes moved slightly before his body did, and she took quick steps backward as he stepped near. "On the contrary, Hermione, I always take care of my possessions."

"I am not something that can be owned, not by you or anyone else!" She hissed.

He loomed over her, an ivory figure clad in black silk. "Denying the truth does not make it false." He chided her as if she were a small child. "You _are_ mine, Mudblood."

Her back hit the doors of the wardrobe, and she wished dearly that it were a gateway to the storybook land of Narnia instead of just an ordinary closet. "You have my physical presence, but nothing else. I am no one's property."

She could feel him staring down at the top of her head, and she kept her eyes fixed on his chest, heart pounding. When he drew his wand, she flinched.

With a twirl of his wand the entire color scheme of the room switched to green. Hermione glowered at the Slytherin shades now adorning every inch of the room from the paint on the ceiling to the hem of her nightgown. It was a more earthy green than the House's usual blazing emerald, but the display of ownership was clear enough.

"Undo it," she whispered darkly.

Voldemort twirled his wand between his fingers. It looked more like a polished splinter of bone than wood. "No, I do not believe I shall."

"Change it back! Undo it!" She cried. She couldn't stand to have his color on her, tainting her as though he'd just branded the Dark Mark into her skin. It made her itch. It made her sinuses burn with shame and disgust.

He wrapped one hand around her neck, freezing her stiff with fear.

"I hear you started a curious organization petitioning for rights for House Elves in your fourth year, Hermione. Continue to push me and you will find yourself without clothes, licking my soles on your hands and knees, and calling me 'Master' like one of those lowly creatures you so sympathize with. Am I clear?"

She sniffed, forcing back tears. "Crystal."

"Good." He released her and crossed the room, settling himself in the lone armchair by the fireplace. With a flick of his wand fire bloomed in the grate, snapping and crackling, and the dragon window snapped shut against the bruised skyline. Though the small window, the sky was growing deeper and deeper indigo, flecks of stars already winking through.

Hermione rubbed her hand over her neck, catching her breath. He had not choked her this time, but his grip was firm and fear had chased the breath from her lungs. Voldemort eyed her over steepled fingers, his brow lowered in thought. She looked away from him and instead stared at the fire, gently rubbing the chill from her biceps.

It had been some time since she'd been brought to Hogwarts. Her wounds had by now healed, though the scar at her armpit still hurt when stretched too far, and the two silvery circles at her shoulder where Nagini had bitten her were occasionally filled with a phantom-pain that she suspected would never truly go away.

The rooms were hers alone. She had no company but books and the regular appearances of Hogwarts' House Elves, who seemed to have been forbidden to speak to her, for they never breathed a word. They carried in her meals and made sure she bathed properly, providing her with soap and trimming her body hair no matter how much she protested; forcefully plucking her eyebrows and scraping the hair from her legs. On three occasions she had torn the rooms apart, ripping the draperies from the walls, kicking ashes from the fireplace across the floor, knocking over the bookcase, and scattering downy feathers from the pillows all over the room, but everything was mended and put back it its rightful place before long.

The bookcase was her one salvation. She found that it would provide her with every book in the Hogwarts Library that she asked for… _except_ anything that would have been of any use. She was even denied recent newspapers, leaving her completely cut off from the outside world and her head filled with useless information.

"Do not forget that I am here, Miss Granger." Voldemort said quietly.

Hermione gave a soft snort. "It's impossible to forget _you_, _Dark Lord_."

That seemed to please him. "You may call me Lord Voldemort, but only when I am present. If you say it during other times, you will find one of my Death Eaters paying you a visit, and without my supervision who knows what they might… get up to."

She shuddered, her grip tightening on her elbows. She did not doubt his words, not for a moment.

He regarded her for a moment. "Why do you believe that pathetic creatures such as House Elves should have rights equal to man?"

Her eyes finally flickered over to him skeptically, deeply suspicious. "Why do you want to know? I'm just a Mudblood after all; does my opinion even matter to someone like you? Besides, shouldn't you be torturing me or trying to woo me over to the dark side?"

His eyes glittered in the firelight, flat nostrils flaring slightly with each breath. His large, thin hands rested on the chair arms, stroking the green fabric. "You are _Harry Potter's_ friend, Miss Granger; as enthralling as the idea is I am not a fool to believe that I could ever truly sway you to see things the right way."

She scoffed. "You mean _your_ way."

"My way _is_ the right way." He said smoothly. "And if you wish to be held under the power of my wand until you scream, well…" He drew his wand, rolling it between his fingers and she flinched back. He laughed softly at her, a short expulsion of air so quiet that she almost didn't hear it.

"If I tell you my opinion you'll just curse me."

"I do not intend to curse you for answering a question I ask, but I _will_ curse you if you do not answer."

She bit the inside of her cheek. "Promise you won't?"

"I promise nothing." He said silkily, leaning back.

Oh, there were so many things she wanted to say, things she wanted to spit right in his face and gloat over as his white, reptilian face descended into horror… but she couldn't, no matter how satisfying his expression would be if he knew of Harry's mission. She couldn't ruin Harry's mission to destroy the Horcruxes, not while he was out there fighting and hunting for them. It was her deepest secret. If she'd had a wand she would have Obliviated herself.

She stuck out her chin. "Every sentient being has the right to life, liberty and security of person. Everyone is born free and equal in dignity and rights. No human, wizard or Muggle or otherwise, has the right to take away and suppress others' rights."

He laughed at her. It was a cruel, high-pitched sound that shattered her courage like a brick against glass.

"Stop," she whispered, stricken. "There isn't anything funny about it. T-the Universal Declaration of Magical Rights w-was passed in nineteen forty-seven and is—"

"Nothing but pretty words done in fine ink so as to placate the masses," he cut in, teeth bared in amusement, "So that they can pretend that they are all nice, lovely, good Samaritans who do no wrong."

"That's not true."

"Of course it is."

"It is not," she insisted, voice cracking. "J-just because the people _you_ associate with are war-hungry, prejudiced, hateful people doesn't mean everyone else is!"

"On the subject of _House Elf_ enslavement, Miss Granger, slavery is just a part of human nature, it pre-dates history and is certainly not dead today, even if people would like to pretend that it is. If you wish to bring in Magical Rights into the discussion I certainly will not object. It is a useless contract. Humans are inherently selfish; they are born wicked."

"Well, that certainly explains _you_, doesn't it?" Hermione bit out fiercely. "Destined murderer from the womb, were you?"

His expression froze, slit-pupils narrowing, and with a start Hermione realized that she'd touched on a sore spot. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, the atmosphere of the room suddenly as tense as a violin string.

"Come here, Hermione." Voldemort said quietly, long fingers beckoning.

She stepped back.

"_Now_."

He twisted his wand and the young witch found her body hurled forward as if an invisible hand had grasped her nightdress and yanked her across the room to sprawl at Voldemort's feet. The blood drained from her face as she caught sight of his bony ankles, his strangely patterned white skin, and tried to scramble upright. His hand caught her cheek, threatening in its gentleness, pulling her chin up until she faced him and his burning crimson eyes. She quickly averted her eyes, staring at the pale, pale lavender hue of the inside of his wrist.

Her heart pattered tremulously in her chest and tears rose in her eyes. She hadn't imagined how starved she was for human contact and his hand… his hand—!

"Someone has been telling tales." The Dark Lord hissed softly.

Hermione shivered.

"Who?"

She didn't want to tell him. She just wanted to keep her mouth shut and rip herself away from the aching touch of his hand, but she knew that he would pry the truth from her no matter how she fought. He could not be allowed to look into her mind again. He was not mindlessly enraged this time; he wouldn't overlook seemingly insignificant flashes of memory.

"Dumbledore," she rasped, "Told Harry, and Harry told me."

Voldemort made a noise of disgust. "Of course he did. I should have known."

"It d-doesn't matter anyway," she spat. She pulled her face out of his hand, but the memory of his firm, cool fingers felt as if they'd been burned into her flesh. "Humans aren't all born evil. I-if everyone was born evil then there would be no good in the world! And don't tell me that good doesn't exist because it does, it absolutely does!"

Voldemort withdrew his physical presence slowly, resting his shoulders on the back of the chair and allowing Hermione to sit upright. "Good and evil are simply different points of view, Hermione. Do you think my Death Eaters do what they do in the name of evil?"

She bit her tongue. Logically, she knew that Voldemort's followers thought they had the right of things, but for the life of her she could not fathom how they justified terrorism, murder and such blatant racism. It was easier to cope with the horrors of war if she _didn't_ try to think of how they justified themselves. It kept the enemy at a distance, made him untouchable and inhuman, something that couldn't be related to because the idea that "_they really aren't all that different from us_" was too much to bear.

"Well?"

Oh, he wanted an answer. Hermione swallowed through the lump in her throat, forcing the words out like vomit.

"I suppose not." She said, her voice barely above a whisper. Above her, Voldemort oozed satisfaction like a cat that had caught the canary; hot, sticky darkness dripping from every scaly pore. It made her feel sick inside, jabbing her stomach with knives and prickling her heart.

"My Death Eaters believe that they are right, and your petty little Order thinks that they are right, but history is written by the victors. Since I will be victorious, I am the one who is right."

"You're not right!" Hermione said ferociously, slamming one fist into the floor. "Everyone could start saying that the sky is green tomorrow, but that doesn't make it so! There is nothing right about enslavement and genocide and war, or tormenting people beyond wits end! It's abominable, no matter what a newspaper or textbook might claim! And people know this, they know it in their hearts and souls that these things you're inspiring and doing are _wrong_!"

She gesticulated widely and wildly with her arms as she spoke, an animate and passionate speaker, and he followed the sweeps of her fingers and thrusts of her palms with his eyes.

The corner of his upper lip lifted slightly into a sneer. "You speak as though my war on Muggles and Mudbloods is a personal attack against you. It is _not_. I _do_ hate your kind… and I hate Muggles even more, but this blood war is… ultimately it is a means to an end, not the result of a personal grudge against your kind. This is… presently about Harry Potter."

She glared and found that she was not afraid to look Voldemort in the eye now. "Harry will defeat you."

"I will kill your boy-hero before he has the chance. Your faith is utterly misplaced. I _will_ win."

"If this war is about Harry, what was the last war about then?"

"My first war was about seizing power. Mudbloods are just the scapegoats, but it is not as if Purebloods are not justified. You are a blight on Wizarding culture. Mudbloods are unnatural. Magic does not just spring out of nothingness, and you pollute our world with your 'modern' ways and ideals."

"Modern? Every generation seeks to be modern. Humanity is always determined to move forward and defy the bindings of their predecessors to find their independence."

"Modern people seek to eradicate tradition in order to simplify their difficulties, in order to be _lazy_. It begins with something small, replacing parchment with leaf paper, for example. But, slowly, it escalates and grows until you find the entire system upturned, and its origins lost to texts."

"Perhaps there is something to Purebloods' hate for Muggle culture;" Hermione consented, "Perhaps Muggle-borns are pushing Wizarding culture to disintegrate, but if that is the case it is not the fault of Muggle-borns, but it is the fault of wizards for not being able to adapt like every other species on the planet. Every generation has a tendency to claim its traditions are dying, whether that generation lived sixty years ago or six hundred; humans are constantly on the move.

"Survival of the fittest," she said, "Charles Darwin's theory of natural selection. If there are more Muggles than wizards it is because they are the stronger race."

"_Crucio!_"

She was on the floor, screaming. Pain flowed through her like it oxygenated her blood, ripped apart her every nerve, clogged her throat, her ears filled with the sound of her own shrieks until she felt her eardrums would burst and bleed. Her spine bent like her bones were trying to tear free from her flesh.

"Cheeky little Mudblood. You _are_ a smart one."

Hermione curled into a fetal position, shaking and crying in the aftermath of the curse. But the pain hadn't put her down, it just served to fuel her hate for this evil man.

"Muggles are vermin, like rats, breeding out of control!" Voldemort snarled.

"Muggles can't reproduce any faster than witches can," Hermione gasped, "One birth a year, no more, no less; one child, occasionally two, and cases of triplets and quadruplets are so rare they make headlines. And because Muggles don't inbreed they have a larger genetic pool, which is beneficial to our species. Human beings aren't like dogs and horses to be bred for a particular niche, though people have tried. Humans think for themselves, the masses won't be contained like that. Wizards are restricting their biological development by restricting their choices in husbands and wives. You can refine what you already have, but you can't branch out and expand. A sheepdog will never make a good hunting hound."

His wand was fixed pointedly at her, crimson eyes burning with hate. "You just said that humans are not animals, do not go contradicting yourself now, Mudblood. Muggles are no better than _swine_. They are lower than House Elves. They are wicked, selfish, destructive beings and wiping them out would be more of a favor to the earth than a loss."

"They are not. And denying the truth doesn't make it false." She said softly, firmly.

"You _dare_ to turn my own words against me, Mudblood?" he hissed, rising.

"I dare to do a lot of things, _Voldemort_." She returned, also pushing herself upright. She swayed dangerously as she did so, crystalline tear-tracks marring her pale cheeks, breast heaving. "I dare to inform you that you will go down in history as the greatest war criminal since Adolf Hitler."

Voldemort's lip curled into a sneer. "I remember Hitler. He and his Nazis were always the subject of gossip during my youth, and I agree," he lifted one elegant forefinger for emphasis, "that humans can be brought to a level higher than the common man. But he was a Muggle, he could not even do that right, for all his glorious ideals—those films and photographs of his concentration camps were released and what the world witnessed was horrifying and disgusting, but history is written by the victors. If Hitler had triumphed his methods would be viewed as acceptable and practical."

"How is this any different?" Hermione cried. "How is what you're doing to Muggle-borns, tearing families apart, throwing innocent people in Azkaban, making the students march through the halls like Hitler's Youth—this country is now ruled by fear! Even if you win and your methods are seen as 'acceptable and practical,' countries ruled by fear and strict regiment are always torn down in the end! Always! The people will flee in droves and come back to render you limb from limb! You think the International Confederation of Wizards will stand for this?"

"If I win? There is no 'if,' only _when_. _'Victorious warriors win first and then go to war, while defeated warriors go to war first and then seek to win._' I _will_ be victorious. It _is_ the strict regiment that I am tearing down; _I_ am the revolution of which you speak! I, Lord Voldemort! I will create utopia for the Wizarding World, the Confederation may be reluctant at first, but they still trade with countries that violate their international Declaration, don't they? They will see the right of things in time." He threw his arms out in a grand, sweeping gesture, as if the world he dreamed was somewhere in the air betwixt them. "Wizards do not bother with such tedious things as farm work and construction, but nor do they realize how vital those things are. Why do you think wizarding buildings are so old? Many are hazardous, but there is no one to rebuild them.

"They arrogantly depend on Muggles for large quantities of such supplies, believing us to be more powerful—and we are! But Muggles are destructive beings at their cores. I was there when the daily papers were freshly printed, the details of the bomb drops in Japan described, thousands of people, evaporated in an instant. The Wizarding World has forgotten what war brings by now, but I have not! What happens to wizards when Muggles refuse to sell their stock, when the Muggles spend all of their energy financing destruction and death? When the enemies destroy, salt, and burn their mills and fields, and level every building in London with flame, Muggle and magical alike? A Flame-Freezing Charm cannot save an entire house and it is useless against Fiendfyre. In times such as those, Muggles do not sell to mysterious buyers and wizards starve, and in modern times it is even more difficult to buy and construct without the proper paperwork, which most wizards lack.

"Wizards like to pretend they are the center of the world, but Muggles outnumber us greatly, and if every witch and wizard were to suddenly vanish overnight the Muggles would not even notice, for it is _they_ who truly control the world! It is sickening. It is wrong for such filthy creatures to hold such position over us!"

His passion was startling, and Hermione was momentarily taken aback, the loud volume of his usually soft voice making her extremities shake. She stared up at him fearfully, her heart a battering ram against her ribs. Though frightened, she thought his face to not be entirely horrifying. In a strange and alien way he beheld a unique sort of beauty; his very presence demanded attention and she was hard-pressed to deny it.

Voldemort had said that though he hated Muggles, his war on Muggle-borns wasn't personal, it was a means to an end. But Hermione thought that, while it may have begun that way, somewhere along the road the Dark Lord had grown to believe his own propaganda. Suddenly she felt very weary, and she stepped back, shaking her head at the floor. In her peripheral vision Voldemort watched her with slight puzzlement, having not expected her sudden defeated countenance.

"I don't want to argue this with _you_. It's just a waste of my breath. Revolution is wrought by peasants not by nobles, Voldemort, and Utopia cannot exist. People will never be satisfied with it; they are never satisfied. They always want something better; they always want progress. And I believe Utopia would be a very boring place to live. Harry will kill you, no matter what you say, even if he can't manage to save me in the process."

"So very careless with your existence. Do you not fear death? I refuse to turn you into a martyr, Mudblood." He said, running the backs of his fingers along the tendon of her neck.

Hermione whimpered and shied away from his touch, disgusted at the shiver of longing that coursed her spine. It wasn't necessarily Voldemort's touch she longed for; she ached for anybody, anybody besides those quiet, nervous House Elves! Humans were social creatures, but she had never before appreciated or understood how much a simple smile or touch on the arm meant!

Her movements had not escaped the Dark Lord's notice, and a dark, gleeful gleam filled his eyes.

"Are you… perhaps, _lonely_, Hermione?"

But she would neither speak nor look at him any longer of her own free will, her pink lips tightly shut, her eyes deftly avoiding even his shadows. It was only a minor annoyance to Lord Voldemort, who was quite happy to observe her for a while longer as if she were an interesting insect in a green glass jar; a pleased, wretched smirk curling his mouth.

Finally he grew bored of her and left, a long, languid stroke of one finger down her spine his parting farewell. Her skin leapt at his touch, her entire form rising on tiptoe as every hair on her body stood on end, prompting another brief, cruel laugh.

The dragon window opened wide, tendrils of icy air clutching at Hermione's skirts. Voldemort flew away, his dark form quickly swallowed by the night, and the dragons snapped promptly shut, lock clicking into place. And then—then Hermione allowed herself to fall onto the too soft, too green bed and cried until she couldn't.

* * *

_Author's Afterthoughts:_

_Researching the Human Rights is a major cussing pain in the cuss. Google "human rights" and you'll find page after page of things telling you that the human rights are the rights every human is entitled to, but it was a total cuss finding out just what those rights are! . If you want to know what your basic human rights are, however, there is a link in my profile. Go check it out! :)_

_Elements from Voldemort's pro-pureblood talk were inspired by various fanfics._

_The dragon guarding Hermione's window actually __was_ completely unintentional. It was a totally subconscious element and I didn't realize the connection to "the princess guarded by a dragon" until several days after writing it in. Funny how we write what we know even when we don't know we're doing it. XD 

_Also: Folks, if you have questions, make sure your PM isn't disabled. I can't answer if I have no way of contacting you!_

_If you read, please review, for I would certainly do so for you!  
~Megii _


	4. Heart of the Beast

**_The Ivory Tower_**

You know school is back in session when the reviewers all disappear. Lol.

The lovely, wonderful, brilliant _What-Ansketil-Did-Next_ has declared that the next chapter of IvT should be posted. As I am but a mere mortal powerless to her charms, I have posted it.

* * *

___4. Heart of the Beast_

* * *

_Dooku: "What do you want? Tell me what you want and I will show you how the dark side can help you achieve it. Do you want friends? The dark side can compel them for you. Lovers? The dark side understands passion in a way you never have. Do you want riches—endless life—deep wisdom…?"_

_Yoda: "I want… I want a rose."_

_~Star Wars- Yoda: Dark Rendezvous_

* * *

In retrospect, Hermione should have known that the members of Dumbledore's Army would make a rescue attempt. Even if it had been Harry who led them, the DA had been Hermione's brain-child. She knew the people involved in it; she'd watched them, noted their personalities. They had rebelled against Umbridge, fought in the Department of Mysteries and defended Hogwarts when Death Eaters had invaded it at the end of sixth year. They would be trying to defend it now as well, if only in secret.

Outside of her tower, the snow was rapidly melting.

She had been reading an enormous, old logbook with fine calfskin vellum pages. Hermione pitied the poor newborn cows that had been slaughtered to make the book, but… _oh_, it was lovely. The texture made the pads of her fingers sing; it was so different from the vegetable-pulp parchment that was most widely used these days, and the ink was deep, dark indigo—rare and expensive, considering the time the book was written in. The author was a perfumer; a French wizard who detailed the magical sides of the Silk Road and the beautiful cultural and magical differences between Europe and the Orient.

She had been in the middle of a passage detailing the Chinese Ghost Festival when a tap-tap-tapping noise made her jerk her head up. Her first thought was that it was Voldemort, coming to mock her again, however she just as quickly dismissed the thought, as the Dark Lord would never bother with something as courteous as knocking. Instead, the face that beamed anxiously at her from between the branches of the glass laburnum tree was a much friendlier sight.

"Neville!" she shrieked, scrambling out of the chair to her feet. The logbook fell heavily to the floor where its brittle pages bent, suddenly forgotten.

Neville Longbottom was sporting an impressive blue shiner, his hair horribly messy and windswept, but he grinned at her regardless; a tattered old broom wedged firmly between his legs as he hovered hundreds of feet above the ground.

"Hey, Hermione! We've come to rescue you!" He exclaimed, the sound of his voice muffled by the glass.

"Who's 'we'?" The witch asked, eyes scanning the sky.

"Quite a few of us DA members. This was the only broom we could get, though; everyone else is waiting on the ground." He fumbled around his robes for a moment, drawing his wand and pointing it toward the window. "Alohamora!"

Nothing happened, but it was obvious that had been expected. Neville's eyebrows tilted more sharply, his expression determined.

The visible change in him knocked Hermione's breath away. Gone was the nervous, insecure, slightly chubby young wizard she had grown up with. In his place was a tall, self-assured, indomitable young man who was fighting in spite of dire circumstances—who wouldn't _stop_ fighting until he was stone cold dead on the floor. Of all people, Neville especially had reason to defy the Death Eaters.

She was startled out of her revelation when one of Neville's spells bounced violently off the window, sending him barreling several yards away. Hermione felt a bud of fear swell in her when the dragon of the window lifted its head, purple-red eyes opening as smoke rose from its nostrils.

"Stop!" she cried. "We don't know what kind of wards are on the tower! It's too dangerous!"

"Every ward can be broken!" he said optimistically, flying near and pointing his wand at the window again. The dragon bared its teeth as it snarled.

"_Anyone who attempts any heroics will be punished_ severely," Snape had said. There was no way Neville could break the spells containing Hermione in the tower, she was certain. Voldemort himself had probably set up the wards—to ensure that no one touched his… prize. Hermione felt sick at the thought. She didn't dare let her mind wander to what sort of punishment Snape would assign to Neville and the others if they were caught. It didn't bear thinking about.

"Please, Neville, I'll never forgive myself if you die because of me!"

"I'm a pureblood, they won't dare kill me! Besides I'm not leaving without you!"

Black dots began to move in the blue sky. Hermione felt her heart drop right out of her chest, ice shooting up her spine and filling her veins until her fingers felt stiff with cold.

"_The Dementors!"_

Neville's head whipped around, his skin going ashen and his eyes growing wide as he caught sight of them. He began casting spells more fiercely, colorful flashes striking the window to no avail.

"Neville, no, just go!"

"Not-without-you!" The wizard enunciated through gritted teeth, sweat beginning to form on his pasty brow. The laburnum blossoms shook like soundless golden bells. The stained glass dragon stood up, hissing and spitting star-shaped sparks. A bright blue spell ricocheted off the lock and plowed back into him, and Neville was hurled backward, spinning rapidly, clinging to the broom by the tips of his fingers.

Hermione released a strangled scream, which was just as quickly cut short by clapping her hands over her mouth. The Dementors came steadily and rapidly closer; their tattered, black cloaks rippling behind their narrow forms. Frost was beginning to form on the edges of the glass as Neville shook the dizzy cobwebs from his mind and zoomed back to the window, his expression growing desperate, his breath misting in the air.

She pounded her fists against the glass in time with her rapid pulse, before gesturing wildly with her arms. "Go, Neville! Go! _Run_!"

The dragon roared, vomiting up blue and orange flames, and the iron frame of the window suddenly burned red-hot. They both jumped back from the window, shrieking at their burnt fingers; Neville wobbling dangerously on the broom. The Dementors were nearly on top of him.

"Neville, _GO_!" Hermione bellowed and the boy twisted his head around and dropped out of view like a stone, rocketing away, Dementors tailing him like the shadows of his shadow. Hermione pressed her face to the freezing glass and watched her classmate plummet like a brick; desperation and intent getting the tattered old broom to move at a speed that could have nearly matched a Nimbus 2000. Most of the Dementors hurled past the window after him, but a couple paused to direct their hooded visages into the room, causing Hermione to quickly stumble away. For one aching, horrible minute, she could summon no single happy thought; her wobbly gaze fixated on the dark, wicked creature that stared at her through the glass, feasting on the warmth that seeped through.

It finally turned and glided away. All Hermione was left with were blue skies and an angry glass dragon, which still prowled around in agitation, flames curling out from between its jaws. Hermione exhaled shakily, cupping her hand over her mouth and shedding a few tears for Neville's sake. She'd cried enough as it was; she wouldn't let herself collapse into hysterics, but she begged, prayed that Neville managed to outstrip the Dementors and make it to the safety of Hogwarts walls.

Not that being inside Hogwarts was very safe, but a whipping was better than having one's soul sucked out, at any rate. Still, she stumbled back and collapsed boneless into the armchair, the logbook at her feet. She ground the heels of her hands into her eyes, trying to swallow back the horrible scenarios that persisted on flashing through her mind. Neville being held under the Cruciatus Curse until he went mad like his parents. Neville being beaten. Neville being starved, locked up and spit on and defiled. Neville having his insides torn out, put back in and torn out again. Neville being dragged into darkness, his fingernails scrabbling at the stone floor until his nails broke with one half of his terrified face illuminated by moonlight.

There was a hard lump in Hermione's throat. It hurt, shortened her breath and prevented her from throwing up. She couldn't drive the images from her head with willpower alone. She leaned down and picked up the vellum book, shaking so fiercely that she nearly dropped it before finally setting its heavy weight on her thighs. She tried to smooth the bent pages with her palm, but the creases would not disappear. She drew her eyes across the calligraphy, but nothing registered.

She suddenly hoped Harry was safer than she and Neville were. She hoped he had found more Horcruxes. She hoped that he had found some way to destroy them. She hoped that he wasn't alone; that he had found Ron or had accepted Remus Lupin's initial offer to help. She didn't want him to be alone. It was so hard on him to have to be the hero all the time.

She wished she didn't need him to be her hero right now. She wished that she were still in their tent, crying over Ron instead of crying in fear for Neville's life. No matter how her mind cried for Harry to stay away, to not come for her and to stay safe, a traitorous part of her heart pleaded for him to come soon. She didn't need a white knight on a valiant hippogriff under her window, but she did need to be saved.

Hermione hated how helpless she was. She was unable to do anything useful, unable to help anyone, least of all herself. She despised the role of damsel in distress.

She lifted her head; an idea suddenly coming to mind. _A brilliant idea_. Hermione folded the logbook closed and mashed her hands over her face as she stood, smearing away the few tears that had fallen. She tore open the desk drawer, pulling out a quill, inkpot, and strip of parchment.

_If you have found this note, please write back and put the book back and check for a response the next morning. Please._

Her writing was terribly sloppy, drips and smudges marring the letters, but she hardly cared. Blowing on it with a hurried breath to dry the ink, Hermione folded the parchment into a small triangle. She went to the bookcase and wished for a book she knew would eventually be picked up: Miranda Goshawk's Standard Book of Spells, Year Seven. Ruled by darkness or not, students still had NEWTs to worry about.

Hermione slipped the note she had written in-between the table of contents and replaced the book on the shelf, willing it to return the library. A moment later, the tome had vanished. Then she willed it back and found the note still safely inside. Exhaling a shaky, relieved breath she returned it to the library once more and staggered into the armchair, hands trembling from nerves.

When Sirius Black had escaped from Azkaban in her third year, Hermione had gone straight to the books once it had come to light that Sirius was supposedly after Harry. The Wizard prison system was very different from the Muggle one. Wizards had a strict solitary confinement policy, and combined with the Dementors that made for a very, very grim environment. She had had to resort to Muggle literature to find out the effects isolation had on people and had read a passage about the extremities people would go through in an attempt to make contact with others. When a guard was making rounds with books, isolated prisoners would oftentimes tear holes into book covers and hide notes inside before putting the book back together in a way that the guards could not tell it had ever been mistreated. Of course, Hermione wanted to make sure that whoever picked up '_The Standard Book of Spells'_ could find the note, so there was no need for her to go to such extremes as disemboweling a book, but the purpose was the same.

She just hoped that the person who found the note was a friendly student, not a Death Eater in training.

* * *

The stars in the sky twinkled, blazing white, untouched by the tiny existence of human beings. A dark figure skittered across them, distorting the starlight and the blackened husk of the moon. In the stained glass window, the emerald green dragon was temporarily beheaded as it opened, allowing Lord Voldemort to enter, the only sound he made the ruffle of his robes settling.

His pale feet sank into the carpet, the cool breath of nighttime clinging to his clothes. The window closed behind him with a soft snap, his visage almost aglow in the darkness. The dying red embers in the fireplace sprung up with new life at a mere twitch of his wand, illuminating a young woman's form curled up in a chair. The room smelled warmly of wood smoke.

Hermione Granger had fallen asleep across a large book, the upper half of her torso resting uncomfortably across its open pages. Her legs were tucked beneath her and one arm jutted out over the edge of the book, hand hanging limply from the wrist. Her curly hair surrounded her head like a cloud, her lips slightly parted.

It was amusing to see her like this, so foolishly unaware of Lord Voldemort's presence. _So vulnerable_. Had she been awake she would be cowering in fear or bravely throwing her noble morals at him in spite of her terror. The little spitfire had quite the mouth on her and her mind was even sharper than her tongue. It was difficult to find stimulating intellectual conversation these days; most just groveled and agreed, as they should, of course. But at the same time it had been a while since he had encountered a challenge that did not involve dueling. Odd, that he should find it in this dirty-blooded slip of a girl. It was almost offensive except, caged bird that she was; it was hardly worth getting offended over.

As he glided near, he saw that she was crying in her sleep, teardrops tenderly staining the pages of the book. Voldemort knelt, his eyes focused on her softly moving lips, her fluttering eyelids.

"… leas… ah… ee…" she mumbled.

What was she dreaming? He tilted his head and drew the back of his hand across her soft, moist cheek. The young woman's breath hitched, a whimper shaking loose from her throat.

"Not… arry. Please. Please, not Harry. No… arry…"

Fury rose in the Dark Lord like a sudden whirlwind. The pupils of his red eyes shrank to slits, his clawed hand gripping his wand so tightly that the wood creaked. This little girl… _dreaming_ about Potter in his presence! He wanted to take her skull and beat it against the floor until it broke.

"_Crucio!"_

Hermione bolted out of the realm of dreams, screaming. She fell out of the chair, thrashing violently, tearing at her hair and face. Every bone in her body was slowly being cracked into splinters. Her stomach was full of needles. Her skin was being peeled from her muscles, salt and citrus rubbed into every screaming, bleeding vein. A chisel was being hammered through her hard pallet, allowing acid to pour through her sinuses.

"You must not be as bright as I thought, Mudblood. Did you not know that your dear friends tried to rescue you today? And here you are, sleeping, while their backs are flayed before the entire school. The caretaker was most enthusiastic, I daresay. He hung them from the ceiling of the Great Hall by their thumbs. If only he had magic, he could make Bellatrix seem tame."

Hermione sobbed, the sound muffled by the carpet as her nose pressed against it. She cupped her hands against her chest, heart throbbing under her palms like a drumbeat.

"Nothing to say, Hermione?" Voldemort taunted, his teeth bared. "You were so very passionate the last time we spoke, I would have thought you would be spouting off self-righteous nonsense at me as soon as the opportunity arose."

"You're a monster." She whispered.

"I think you would be stunned by the number of people who disagree."

Hermione sniffed loudly and unsteadily pushed herself upright. Her limbs didn't want to cooperate, still partially trapped in REM, and the edge of the chair at her back provided support, pressing uncomfortably at the space just beneath her shoulders. She stared up at him defiantly, despite the fact that it hurt to look at the vicious twist of his animalistic features. She wiped the tears from her cheeks with her legs sprawled like a child.

"Well, we all know that a number of the people who follow you aren't quite right in the head, are they?"

He narrowed his eyes until they were like two crimson drops. He rolled his wand between his fingers and her eyes were warily drawn to it.

"A means to an end, Hermione." He said softly. "Who ever won a war without cannon fodder? They die and ensure that my stronger men can move more efficiently to overcome my enemies. What other purpose does a pawn have in a game of chess besides to die for its king?"

She glared. "You can't do that to people. They're human beings, not just chess pieces."

"Either defend them or condemn them, Hermione," he chided snidely, "Switching back and forth only serves to make you seem more pathetic than you already are. Would you really try to spare someone like Fenrir Greyback from my wrath or would you stand by to let him suffer the punishment he rightly deserves? Even mad dogs have their uses before they need to be put down."

Hermione's eyes searched his face, brown irises trailing the oval shape of his face, the thin gash of a mouth, half of his head cast in lilac shadows, the flat nose. His eyes were the only part of him that seemed truly alive, a burning blood red that bored into her as if she were an insignificant, yet interesting animal. The darkness that saturated his being was invisible to the eye, but she could sense it oozing off him, curling around his feet. His power was wild and wicked, barely restrained, lurking just beneath the skin. The things this man had done…

People weren't pawns. What was his logic behind mistreating his own men? Fear kept them loyal to him, but one caught more flies with honey than vinegar. Wasn't it detrimental to his cause? She now wondered how many Purebloods that remained "neutral" were simply supremacists who refused to join Voldemort because of his cruel, inhuman ways. It made little sense that he mistreated the very people he was trying to bring to power and it couldn't be that they were all as barking mad as Bellatrix Lestrange.

"You're doing it on purpose, aren't you?" she whispered in dawning horror. His hairless brow rose, an expression of mild surprise flitting across his face. She slowly pushed herself to her feet. "The Purebloods. You're letting them die on purpose. I'd heard you don't treat your followers any better than you treat your prisoners, but… Yo-you let them scorn and kill Muggles and Muggle-borns, but you don't even practice what you preach! _You_—!"

He fell upon her, and a yelp burst from her mouth. His hand held her throat as he shoved her down into the green armchair, her ears filled with the noise of cloth catching on air, his wand pressed to her cheek like the skin would cleanly split under its tip. His eyes were wide and glinted deep burgundy with warning.

"Some epiphanies are best kept to oneself, would you not say? Be careful what comes out of that pretty little mouth of yours, otherwise you may soon find yourself without one." He hissed.

Hermione closed her eyes, shivering. Voldemort was a horrible, cruel man who just wanted the entire world to burn… it wasn't fair that his touch should feel so nice and welcome when it _wasn't_ nice and it _wasn't_ welcome! And yet, now that she had the sensation of another person's skin resting against hers, every cuticle ached with sensory deprivation. Her gut was twisted between disgust and elation.

She thought painfully of Harry. She missed him. She missed his hugs, she missed holding his hand when they Apparated, she missed sitting next to him with their shoulders lightly brushing. She missed having him smile at her, a smile that had grown so rare and precious since Dumbledore's death.

Voldemort moved his hand so that it cupped her cheek and she gasped lightly, her eyes snapping open to focus on his pearly inner arm. In her peripheral vision she could see his mouth curve in amusement.

"Still so lonely, Hermione?" he said, stroking the skin below her eye with his thumb. His forefinger curled about her ear, as did his voice. "My prize pet Mudblood."

She whimpered, unable to stop herself from gently leaning into his palm. She lifted one trembling hand and placed it over his. She warily, delicately traced the rise of his knuckles and the lines of his veins with her fingertips. His skin was soft and fragile, his bones hard and sharply angled. The slight scaly texture of his flesh was uniquely bizarre, almost synthetic.

A few glistening tears slipped loose when he lowered his wand to stroke his fingers down her face from brow to chin. His nails lightly scraped her cheek, making gooseflesh rise along with a rosy blush.

"So fragile." The Dark Lord mused. "A caged finch. Lovely too. The bad blood is a shame, really."

Hermione eyes snapped open wide, the world bursting into sharp, piercing clarity, her stomach roiling with disgust. Glaring fiercely at him, she tugged her face out of Voldemort's grasp. He watched her, slowly dropping his hands away.

"Don't spit at my blood when yours is equally disgusting." She growled. "Bastard child of a tramp and a Muggle, what have you to be so proud of?"

Voldemort's nostrils flared, his eyes lighting up with some strange, disturbing inner glow. She could practically see the hackles rise on his shoulders. His face was suddenly too close, enraged red drilling into brown. She pressed herself as tightly against the back of the chair as she could, her heart hammering madly.

"I have the purest, most sought-after blood there is. I am the last living descendant of Salazar Slytherin!" he hissed, his breath fanning across her face.

"Salazar Slytherin is a thousand years _dead_, he is nothing but a name and a portion of a _school_! Even if you're directly descended, your relation is distant at best." She countered sharply, masking her terror.

"My ancestor was the most powerful sorcerer of his time!"

"He was a peasant from a slew! His power came from being lucky enough to be educated by monks! What remains of his legacy besides the students of Slytherin House and your ability to speak to snakes? He left behind no fantastic heirlooms, jewels or gold. What little he had was left to Hogwarts, and you _defile_ his memory by defiling this school!"

"_Crucio_."

Hermione threw her head back and screamed, limbs thrashing. Her voice quickly broke, blood boiling up her esophagus. Wild beasts were tearing out her innards. Her limbs were tied to ropes and twisted and twisted until they shattered in their sockets. Her muscles were being butchered like animal meat, electricity overloading her nervous system. Her eyes were being stabbed and torn out of her head with forks, her face cut to ribbons by razors…

"You never learn, do you?" Voldemort hissed, lifting the curse.

"I learn quite quickly, actually," she gasped from the floor, voice cracking. "I'm just stubborn."

"Clearly," he ground out.

She coughed, gasping for each breath. "Surely you know more than three spells, Voldemort."

"I know more about magic than you have ever dared to dream about. I have mastered spells you do not even know the _existence_ of!"

"Why are you even here?" She murmured miserably, briefly curling into a ball. "You can't have come to here just to argue with me. You're not that bored, not with a war going on around you."

There was a downy silence. A moment where the only sound in the room was the keening whine of the fire and Hermione's breath as it slowly grew less labored. When she felt the end of a wand pressing under her chin, Hermione opened her eyes to the hem of Voldemort's long robes. Lifting her eyes, she allowed him to gently nudge her up until she stood; her head tilted back slightly, shoulders thrown back. Voldemort replaced his wand with his finger, feeling her tremble ever so lightly under his touch.

"I do have a purpose for being here, Hermione." He said quietly. "This afternoon your classmates attempted to take you from this tower. They have been punished. Now it is your turn."

"I—"

"You tried to escape." He said in a hiss even lower than before. Hermione could not hold back her whimper. "I shall be stripping you of your book privileges, Hermione."

Hermione blanched, her chest squeezing painfully and she met Voldemort's smoldering eyes, her own wide with horror.

"_No…_" she whispered.

"If you are a good girl and behave yourself accordingly, perhaps you will get them back in time."

"You can't _do_ this to me!" she exclaimed throatily, her eyes shining like glass. She fisted her hands in the front of his robes, but Voldemort tore her bur-like fingers away with a disgusted sneer, clutching her wrists so tightly her tendons cramped.

"I am your Lord and Master; you have no choice in the matter, my little Mudblood pet."

"No!" She wailed, thrashing her arms in his grip, but she could neither pull free nor strike him. Tears began to earnestly fall down her cheeks in shimmering, starry trails. "Give them back! You give me my books back!"

Voldemort narrowed his eyes. "Any particular reason you are upset to the point of madness over _books_?"

She froze solid, fear seeping into ever muscle fiber. He pulled her firmly against him, shifting his grip so that he held both of her hands in his right, and dove his left hand into her hair, tugging her head back so that she was forced to look directly into his eyes.

He penetrated her mind instantly, ripping her most recent memories to the front where he could see them. Hermione's cry was strangled by pain.

"Oh, I see." Voldemort said softly. He increased the pressure on her hands until the pain had her on her knees before him, green skirt flowering around her form. "Clever, Hermione, very clever. I am impressed, but… no one will find your silly little note now." He put his mouth to her ear, his voice so soft that it hurt. "I am all that you have now, Hermione."

A sob broke loose, her straight white teeth bared in utter misery. When Voldemort released her wrists, purple-red lines were already striping across her skin. She curled into a ball at his feet, hating how loudly his words rang true.

* * *

Boredom consumed Hermione Jean Granger like a flame. Without anything to read there was nothing to fill her days. At least Voldemort hadn't taken her quills and parchment, and she wrote essay after meaningless essay to keep herself occupied. Keeping a journal or something similar was something she didn't dare do, something that was only reinforced tenfold when she awoke one day to the Dark Lord sitting in her room and reading one of her papers.

It was a terrifying thing to have the morning greet you with an evil snake-man sitting on the edge of your bed and running a hand through your hair like you were a beloved furry pet. Hermione had completely stiff under his ministrations, too stunned and afraid to move until he had made some scoffing comment on her essay. She had scrambled away from him as though stung by the sound of his voice. However, he took a hold of her hair, preventing her from putting any distance between them.

He was very insistent on touching her. Not out of any sentimental attachments on his own part, but because he knew how lonely she was in mind, body and soul. He wanted her to get attached to him, to submit and accept defeat. _Always_ his hands were brushing across her skin, making her feel claustrophobic and trapped, but it lit a deep ache within her also. Her mind protested any kind of contact with Voldemort, but she could not stop her skin from sighing at his touch and she could not help the relief that spread from her ears when he spoke, even if his voice was eerie. She hated this man, but she nevertheless leaned into his palm when he caressed her cheek and she argued furiously against him when he belittled Muggle-borns and Harry Potter.

Privately she thought that Voldemort almost seemed to enjoy their debates. Beneath his arrogant, superior sneer it was as if he purposely meant to pick fights with her, goading her into stating her opinions and philosophies so he could try to crush them with all the enthusiasm of a man half his age. But surely that was impossible, even if his use of the Torture Curse on her had grown sparse, usually only used when Harry was brought into the picture—her steadfast faith in her dear friend irritated Voldemort like nothing else.

Hermione would never give up on Harry. She would never betray Harry, no matter how invigorating an intellectual conversationalist Lord Voldemort was. No matter that he was all she had to ground her to reality. And it _did not matter_ that she sometimes forgot that she hated him or that she found him fascinating on the occasions when she was not afraid.

Surely it was beneath his station to visit and debate with her as he did. Surely it was below his _interest_. She wondered why he hadn't simply left her in the tower and been done with it. She resented herself for not wishing that he would leave her alone. If only she could just destroy her human need for sociality and tell Voldemort to leave her alone. But it simply wasn't that easy.

She bent over the ebony desk; her fingers stained the same black color as the wood as she scribbled away a Transfiguration thesis. A low growl tore her attention away from her writings, the hairs on her back going erect. Hermione and the dragon in the stained glass window shared a relationship that was very much like that of a prisoner and its guard. After Neville's rescue attempt, the dragon had grown rather aggressive toward the young witch and though she knew it could not actually harm her, she still kept her distance from it, as its face contorted into a most horrible visage whenever she came close to the window, hissing and spitting red. That is was growling now, when she had done nothing to provoke it, meant only one thing.

The window swung open, the creak of iron hinges sharp and quiet.

Hermione did not move, her quill tip dripping a steady circle of ink onto the parchment, but she did not notice. She did not turn around, but her body was hyper-aware of every movement he made, the cold sweeping across her shoulders and ankles, the swish of his robes, his gaze on the back of her head. The aura he gave off was tainted with buried anger, the origin of which she could only imagine. She stared at the parchment before her with wide eyes, but not truly seeing it.

He stopped just behind her chair and _oh, Merlin_, every pore on her body ached. He leaned down and one of his hands came down, the sleeve of his robes rustling against her semi-bare shoulder as he placed his spidery white hand on the desk beside hers. His skin stood out as pale as Muggle printing paper.

"Evening, Hermione," he said softly, sibilantly.

Her skin gave a little jump and she hurriedly began writing again. "Evening." she squeaked.

He emitted a puff of breath into her hair, a short, silent exhale of amusement. The feeling of imminent danger did not vanish, though. In fact it grew. His large hand settled on top of her small one, stilling her.

"Stand up." His voice was stony, making little drips of ice flicker up and down her spine.

Slowly, Hermione pushed the chair back and rose to her feet, knees popping audibly. Voldemort's hand settled on the back of her neck, a silent, subtle threat. Her feelings of dread grew and when he pulled her around to an open space of floor she spotted the expression on his face. Something had gone very wrong for him.

"What…" she paused and swallowed; her stomach tight as he glowered down at her. "What is it?"

His gaze grew sharper, the press of his fingers tighter. "Your little friends are a thorn in my side. Perhaps I overestimated your worth, since they continue to evade and humiliate me even without you to help them."

Though her fear, a bright splash of joy burst in her chest, sweet and golden. "Harry?"

The Dark Lord sneered. "I suppose you would be glad to know that Potter and several of your meddlesome, worthless _friends_ broke into the Malfoy's Manor and spirited Ollivander and the Lovegood girl away. The little brat was so bold as to leave behind a message. He will be coming to steal you away next."

Relief washed over her like a tidal wave, and she collapsed to her knees at the force of it, tears instantly cascading over her cheeks the moment the news truly registered in her mind.

Thank Merlin. _Thank Merlin!_ Harry was all right! So were Luna and Mr. Ollivander, and surely Ron and others too! They were all okay!

Harry was coming for her. Harry was coming to kill Lord Voldemort and to free her. Oh, to feel the wind on her face, the grass under her feet, to hear and see other _people_! To wear _jeans_ again and get out of these wretched dresses and skirts for good! _Harry_! She missed Harry more than anything and she would _see_ him again. She had nearly died for him; she had _expected_ to die for him, but she _lived_ and he was _coming_ for her, coming to rescue her! Voldemort would die and she would never see him again and…

That thought should not have stung as much as it did. It should not have stung _at all_.

There was absolutely no reason that she should feel any sort of grief or guilt at the thought of the death of this horrible—'_brilliant_,' her traitorous mind whispered—vile—'_impassioned'—_evil—'_stubborn'_—murdering, inhuman creature, ever! It could not happen! Her attachments were strictly physical, a basic human need for social contact, nothing more. Outside these walls there were gentler, more loving hands to embrace her and she would rejoice in them!

Tears fell with increasing urgency.

She hated him. She was not attached. She _could not _be attached no matter how much time had passed.

She was suddenly aware of Voldemort's hands encircling her head, yanking her chin up toward his infuriated face.

"Stop it!" he hissed, stretching the skin of her cheekbones tightly toward her temples, his thumbs catching her tears and sweeping them away. "Stop your useless sniveling!"

But she couldn't stop. In fact, the sight of his ivory-white face only served to make her cry harder. She shoved that detested feeling down so deep that it rattled her insides. The grotesque twist of his face only grew more intense as he felt her tremble under his palms.

He slid one hand into the hair at the back of her head, twisting it mercilessly between his bony fingers. She wailed aloud as she was hauled to her feet, wand tip at her throat, and dragged over to the bed. The thick olive comforter cushioned her fall as he cast her upon it, the sweet smell of yarrow and lavender soap rising, box springs creaking. Her hands flew to the back of her skull, cradling the sore skin of her scalp. Voldemort allowed her no moment to recover; a fraction of a moment later he was hovering over her, elbow cocked back to point his wand at the center of her forehead.

Hermione's tears retreated, her eyes drying and pupils dilating in an instant as her racing mind stopped short with terror. She did not want to be cursed with the Cruciatus. It was a pain that was impossible to get used to; no matter how many times a person was held under it. Her chest heaved with panicked gasps, breath shortened by the tight bodice pressing against her stomach and ribs.

"There." He sneered. "Much too frightened to cry now, are you not, my little Mudblood pet?"

Yes, she most certainly was. She stared at the blurry tip of his wand, nearly cross-eyed. He slid it over to her temple and took her chin in his hand, squashing her cheeks. Fiery red eyes burned into her frightened brown orbs.

"Do not think that Harry Potter is going to 'save' you." Voldemort snarled. "I won you from him. I _own_ you! You are _mine_ and I will _kill_ you before I let Harry Potter have you!"

Such horrible, possessive and dark words. They sent a fresh stab of fear through her… but it was not only fear she felt. No, that tingly little thrill was unexpected and unwarranted. It was wrong. The high points of her cheeks tinged pink with shame. That wicked little pleasure was wrong and unwanted. It was only because she had had Voldemort as her only company for so long, surely! It would go away. It wasn't real; it was a baser, primitive response that was all!

"Why?" she whispered croakily, not sure whom she was asking: the Dark Lord or herself.

The angry expression slowly slid off of Voldemort's face. His narrow pupils darted between her eyes and then roamed other parts of her face. His expression was carefully blank, but she saw something questioning rise in his eyes. He moved his hand down so that it covered her throat and he leaned back a bit, his eyes still searching her lower and lower. And then, quite suddenly, he went very, very still.

Hermione stared up at him with a medley of anxiousness and bewilderment. A tiny, nearly unnoticeable tremor passed through his hand into her neck and something that was very nearly pain flickered across his face. She followed his gaze down, and realized he was staring at her breasts, which strained against the low neckline of her dress with each gasping breath.

A bit of air got stuck in her throat. Her stomach felt as if she had Splinched it. She dismissed the slight skip of her heart. She was suddenly very aware of Voldemort's physical presence: the uneven, heavy weight of his robes on her dress, the way his fingers bent around her neck, the slight press of his knee beside her thigh, the minute rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed. His gaze scorched her.

Slowly, he unwound his hand from her throat, slipping down her collarbone to lightly curl his fingertips into the edge of the bodice, the smooth tops of his nails pressing against the tops of her breasts. Panic shot through her, and her arm bolted out to wind around his wrist. He tore his eyes up to hers and by that look alone she felt utterly pinned in place.

"Do not be so afraid, Hermione." He said quietly. "I only want to have a look. There is no harm in that. Any man would do the same."

A man! How dare he claim to be an ordinary man when he was everything but! He was barely human, much less a man! His head turned down toward her chest again and with a look of raw hunger he wrapped both hands firmly into the edge of the neckline. She jerked slightly, blushing right down to her shoulders as she felt the backs of his fingers press against her nipples. There was no need for a bra with this sort of dress.

"No," she mouthed despairingly, but her plea was silent. No sound would come forth.

She clutched at his wrists, but despite his frail form he was strong, much stronger than she, and with a violent, eager movement of his arms the dress tore right down the middle, her shriek accompanying the sound. His hand slid back around her neck, holding her down firmly as he quickly stripped her of the ruined dress' remains, the sheer sleeves easily tearing away from her arms and then flung away to the floor out of sight and then… Then time in the tower room seemed to stand still for one agonizingly long moment as Voldemort feasted on the sight of her naked flesh.

She shivered under his invasive gaze, which traveled down her collarbone, pausing at one rosy brown nipple then the other, counting her ribs as they strained against the confines of skin, then roving across the expanse of her belly and the thin scar that crossed it, the little indent of her navel, and the small cushion of curly hair protecting that sacred place between her thighs. She watched his neck contract as he swallowed, and she tightened her hold on the arm holding her down, fingernails digging into flesh. When he lightly brushed his fingers against the slope of her waist, she jerked violently, and when he drifted to touch another piece of young skin, she went blind with fear. She wasn't sure exactly what he'd done or even what it was that she did, but in the next moment she was sobbing uncontrollably, yanking the bed sheet over her exposed form.

It took her several moments to gather her wits about her enough to be the least bit rational. Shaking like a leaf, she peered out through her tears and saw Voldemort standing some paces away from the bed, looking as though he'd come to a very disturbing realization. His eyes flickered from her to an obscure corner of the room and back again, as if it burned him to look at her but she contained some unknown knowledge that he longed for most dearly. When he caught her looking at him, her eyes rimmed with red, shoulders trembling, her curly hair a mussed halo, a naked, pink leg temptingly exposed over the crumpled cloth, he stared more determinedly away, his thin mouth pressed so tight that it nearly vanished.

The Dark Lord whipped his wand at the stained glass window with such sudden violence that Hermione recoiled as if he had physically struck her. It flung open, coldness rushing in.

"Voldemort…" she whispered then found that she was not entirely sure why she did so.

He paused, for a moment a man carved from limestone, and then she saw a shiver ripple across his skin as if from the cold… but she knew it was not from the chill of the air. He still did not look back at her.

"Harry should be here within the week," he said softly, "The House Elves will be told to make sure that you are… presentable."

Then he was gone, the window yawning into empty air for a moment before shutting. And Hermione was afraid… for herself and of herself.

* * *

_Author's Afterthoughts:_

_If you read, please review, for I would certainly do so for you!  
~Megii _


	5. Point of No Return

**_The Ivory Tower_**

* * *

_Notes:_

_The original outline for this story had no naughtiness between Hermione and Voldemort, not even a real kiss. However, those of you 18 and over can go read this chapter with an added adult scene over at AdultFanfiction, the link to which is in my profile. The additional scene DOES add a deeper, more complex layer to their relationship. __Despite writing that, I wanted to keep at least one version of IvT in the original version that I had first imagined, and I decided to keep that version here at FF (I'm such sentimental sucker, gah, shoot me) since… well, posting naughtiness here is technically prohibited anyway (not that that's enforced)._

_I read your profiles. I do. I can't stop you from lying about your age, but if I find anyone under 18 commenting on my R-rated material I will scold him or her. Tsk tsk. ::wags forefinger::_

_As I told What-Ansketil-Did-Next wayyy back when I'd just finished the first chapter of IvT and the outline for everything else: There is no gradual development of feelings here. It does not really qualify as "romance" in the usual sense, though not for lack of emotion. When passion comes it will be swift, sudden, and with such intensity that the characters and audience are all sent reeling from the force of it. Or at least I hope so. Plus, I'm sure we all realize that Voldemort is not the type to tiptoe around any subject. Let me know if I failed or succeeded, mmyes?_

_::slaps forehead:: Another subconscious decision that I didn't realize the depth of until later: The title of this chapter. The Phantom of the Opera's song "Past the Point of no Return" really is quite fitting, though I feel it to be a tad too romantic (especially the "All I Ask of You Reprise" right at the end there. Erugh. Not this story! Not this one!), so I think the harsher, more predatory tones of the precursor song, "Don Juan Triumphant," are even better suited. ::wink:: I just love iShuffle. The best things pop up in it._

Chapter 5 edited: 21 Jan 2012

* * *

___5. Point of No Return_

* * *

_From my infancy I was imbued with high hopes and a lofty ambition; but how am I sunk! Oh! My friend, if you had known me as I once was, you would not recognize me in this state of degradation. Despondency rarely visited my heart; a high destiny seemed to bear me on, until I fell, never, never again to rise._

~Victor Frankenstein to Robert Walton

* * *

Voldemort had returned the bookcase to her. Unfortunately, Hermione found herself unable to focus on reading long enough to take in anything of substance. Even in seclusion she could sense the thick atmosphere weighing down on the castle, the metallic tang hovering in the air that foretold the inevitable battle, which was creeping over the horizon. In the distance, smoke rose from Hogsmeade. There had been a brief battle some days earlier; the sky had been full of buzzing dots as people flew around violently on brooms and cast brightly colored spells at each other like fireworks, green flaring in abundance, and the Order had taken the Wizarding village out of the Death Eaters' control. Hogsmeade was not burning, but fires were lit.

Fires for war.

Voldemort had let the students go. He wanted as little pure blood shed as possible and since the youths of today were the adults of tomorrow, he had Professor Snape send them all home. Of course, that didn't mean that they all _went_ home. She was positive that many had gone instead to Hogsmeade to join Harry and the Order. Though Hogwarts' halls were empty and Hermione was alone, even she could sense that the upcoming confrontation would be the final battle in this war. Voldemort and Harry would walk onto the grounds and only one would walk away. Hermione would not be able to save Harry from certain death a second time. The Wizarding World would either spiral further into darkness or drift back into the light.

Something had happened the day before. Two people had met alone on Hogwarts' grounds, one a Death Eater from the castle and the other emerged from the Forbidden Forest from Hogsmeade. Ambassadors, Hermione guessed, as they were much too obvious to be spies, and when they reached an agreement they parted, the Death Eater coming back to the castle and the other figure going back into the woods. The sense of impending doom was heavier after that and only grew heavier with each passing hour.

She wrung her hands until they were slick with perspiration and when the skyline was tinged with the first signs of dusk a soft pop drew her attention to the House Elf that had appeared earlier than scheduled. It stood by the bathroom door, silent as always, its large brown eyes imploring. Hermione exhaled slowly, dropping her hands to her sides, fingertips bitten raw from apprehension. The House Elf's gaze was apologetic. Hermione steeled her heart and willingly went forth.

* * *

It was not surrender to not tear her dress and jewels asunder as she did the previous times … was it? The House Elf had worked hard on her appearance; was it just that she hadn't the heart to put all its effort to ruin? Hermione didn't care about the superficiality of physical looks and she didn't care to go out of her way to look like a great beauty—not for anyone—least of all Lord Voldemort. But the silent House Elf had finished her hair and make-up and as she moved to wipe it all away she had caught sight of her reflection.

She found herself unable to smudge her crimson-stained lips or the forest green eye-shadow on her eyelids or to tear the pearls and peridot from her hair. She felt rather unlike herself. The woman in the mirror was so very lovely. Surely Hermione Granger was not this lovely? She was pretty enough, she supposed, but she wasn't beautiful like Fleur Delacour or Ginny Weasley or even Lavender Brown.

It wasn't surrender to allow herself to be that girl in the mirror for a short while, was it? It wasn't defeat. It wasn't… it wasn't _surrender_.

Her brown eyes trailed over her reflection: her momentarily tamed curls, held back by an ivory pin set with gold wire, pearls, and pale green peridot gems. Her perfectly plucked eyebrows and the light dusting of make-up across her eyes, cheeks and mouth. The small chandelier earrings and necklace she wore matched the hairpin. The bangles were back too, heavy on her ankles and wrists, exotically and richly designed; shackles disguised as jewelry.

The dress was very Celtic: leaf green and ivory white with gold detail. The sleeves were long and drape-like. Hermione trailed her fingers down the laced bodice, gently touching the zigzagging ribbons. She felt as though she were in mourning for something she hadn't yet lost. Her innocence perhaps? The lives that would soon be lost? The possibility that the Dark Lord might win the war and her freedom would be lost to her forever?

Hermione sucked in a breath and tore her gaze away from her reflection; shaking her head as if it would help clear her mind. She couldn't think that Voldemort would win. She had to have faith in Harry—that faith could never waver! Even if her feelings got lost she had to have hope. Hope was a tiny candle burning in a pitch-black room, but it _did burn_ and even if it flickered in the wind it would not go out. She remembered one birthday when she had still been a little girl and her parents had decorated the cake with trick candles that sparked back to life after being blown out, driving her to tears of frustration. Hope was like that, she thought.

A timid tug on her sleeve pulled her attention down to the House Elf at her side. It held its hand out, palm up. Hermione inhaled slowly and slipped her hand into the smaller one. A twist and a pop later she was in the Great Hall, the horizon closer to eyelevel than it had been in months, the very sight of which made her heart leap into her throat with joy.

It lasted only a moment, however, as the next instant the House Elf shuffled away, bowing hastily and vanishing.

"Good evening, Hermione."

Her eyes left the world laying just outside the windows to the lone other figure in the hall. The red and pink hues had left the sky, leaving behind a cold blue twilight and he stood out in the gloom like a phantom.

"Voldemort." She returned softly.

She was acutely aware of his every movement as he glided over to her, one ghostly hand outstretched in a beckoning gesture. She didn't respond to it, of course, and his eyes narrowed with a flicker of annoyance. Soon enough he clasped her fingers between his, his other hand coming up to sweep across her brow. She shivered at his cool touch and when he pulled her chin up she met his eyes unflinchingly as he searched her face, finally finding whatever he sought satisfactory. Voldemort placed her hand in the crook of his arm and guided her to the table set where the teacher's table usually was.

As he had done when they dined together before, he gestured for her to sit first, but despite the small feast laid on the table Hermione was hungry for only one thing.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"I will tell you later. We shall dine first." He said, pulling her chair out with his wand since she did not.

"No."

His eyes bored into hers and Hermione ground her teeth as she felt something cold and awful begin to creep up her spine.

"Tomorrow," Voldemort said quietly, "I shall kill Harry Potter once and for all."

Kill Harry? _Tomorrow?_ His words made her knees go weak, and she sank into the chair, feeling horror overtake her. The chair abruptly moved itself into its proper place, but the motion did not shake the feelings from her. Voldemort took his seat to her left and began picking off his already filled plate. Hers was too, she vaguely noticed.

"Cou—" Her voice was hoarse and she paused to clear her throat. "Could you elaborate?"

He did not answer her right away, chewing slowly and contemplatively.

"The Order of the Phoenix has gathered for one last stand against me." The Dark Lord said at last. "They have taken Hogsmeade. Soon after the battle they sent an owl proposing…" he paused and spat the next world out as if it tasted bitter. "Negotiations. Diplomats from both sides have met and… we reached an agreement. Tomorrow at dawn the victors of this war will be decided once and for all. My Death Eaters will meet this ragtag band of blood-traitors and Mudbloods on the field and Harry Potter will finally fall at my hand. There will be no strokes of luck or," he drew a finger down the side of her face, "Lovely heroines to save him again, not this time. Now it comes down to Harry and me, he knows. He knows."

There was a hollowness yawning in her stomach. The space behind her eyes ached, but she didn't feel as if she would begin to cry. Voldemort's forefinger was paused at the line of her jaw as if stuck there. She searched his face, pushing aside the niggling echo of a thought: it wasn't right that she was so used to him that she could identify the subtleties in his malformed facial expressions.

"Something frightens you."

He looked coolly down at her, his mouth tightening briefly before he cupped her cheek in his hand, twirling a strand of her hair between his thumb and forefinger.

"Clever girl," he said, his voice dark but fond, "It would be better to say that I am… concerned."

'_Liar_,' flickered through her mind. "Is…" she began, and paused to swallow nervously. "Is it Harry?"

His eyes narrowed in anger, his flat nostrils flaring, and she quickly looked away, staring at his pale fingers instead.

"Is not Harry Potter _always_ the trouble?" he hissed bitterly. "He is always getting in the way, ruining my plans, keeping me from the things that I want."

There was something in his tone of voice that made her breath hitch in her breast. She looked up at him hesitantly, awed, and she trembled when his thumb ghosted across her lips.

"Yesss, Hermione," he smiled horrifically.

"B-but I… I'm…"

"A Mudblood?" he offered.

She swallowed and nodded slightly. "For starters."

"It is… most unfortunate. But there are factors more important than blood: Your," his fingertips danced across her temple, "Intelligence, your power—on the precipice of maturity, that steadfast, unyielding loyalty and faith… however misplaced; it is quite commendable. You have many admirable traits, Hermione."

"T-the Death Eaters…"

"Have no say in what I choose to do." He hissed softly, drawing her face close enough that she reflexively held her breath. "They obey me, not the other way around. Anyone foolish enough to question me is dealt with accordingly. Regardless, it is not as if they need know about you in the first place. I have many secrets, Hermione; I have no qualms about obtaining another."

Her eyes darted back and forth between his. A tight bubble formed in her throat, a hysterical laugh or a disbelieving sob. This was a dream of some sort, a nightmare. It was outlandish and illogical. It was _ridiculous_. The Dark Lord, have any kind of feelings for a _Mudblood_? It was not possible.

That he had "many secrets" sent alarm bells ringing. Hermione quickly smothered them, forcing herself to focus on the here and now—no matter how appalling it was. A secret was only a secret when no one knew about it. Some of his secrets were no longer so concealed. She could not think about those secrets, lest he discover them whist riffling around her mind.

When it became clear that she would remain silent, Voldemort spoke again, his voice hushed and insistent. "Harry Potter's blood flows through my veins… it allows me to touch him when I could not before, though it causes us both some degree of pain, Harry more than myself, and it… _burns_… whenever I think of you."

Her very hair curled with some unspeakable, terrible emotion. No. No, Merlin, no. Voldemort's blood… He shared Harry's blood—in fourth year, Voldemort had stolen Harry's blood in order to acquire new life.

"Only when you are with me do I feel relief from it."

Lily Potter's sacrifice lived in Harry's blood.

"I have found no satisfactory explanation, but I have determined that you must belong to me."

Lily Potter's _love_ lived in Harry's blood.

"I must own you entirely. I _will_."

The horror that had been blossoming in her gut came to fruit. It made sense, but it was still unbelievable. Just what effect had Harry's blood had on Voldemort's resurrection ritual? He had clearly gotten more than a slippery crack in a previously impregnable wall. It had done more than merely deepen the bond between the two males. It had… Merlin, did Voldemort even realize _himself_ what he had taken? She was dreaming. She had to be.

She was still silent, speechless, and it must have unnerved him in some way because unease briefly flashed across his serpentine face, the textured skin around his eyes and mouth flexing.

"I can be a generous Lord, Hermione." He said softly, slipping his hand into hers, fingers interlacing together so that her heart leapt into her throat to choke her. "I am a cruel man, but I would not cause you undue agony. I have kept you comfortable, have I not? I have ensured that you remained lovely and whole; you have not been beaten and raped by my Death Eaters in the bowels of the Malfoy Manor or thrown to Greyback's pack. Have I not been generous? Have I not allowed you to speak your mind to me when I would have killed any other who dared to speak to me with such disrespect?

"You see, Hermione?" He said, holding her hand to his breast, allowing her to feel the steadily fluttering organ caged within. "Even I have a heart."

She turned her face away, mouth open wide with emotion. Her breath came in shallow gasps. There was a prickling in her sinuses as if she might sneeze. She bit her lip, trembling. "Yes, a black withered thing without pity."

His fingers held her pink digits all the more firmly. "Why should I pity anyone? The situations they find themselves in are naught but the results of their own folly."

"Am I not pitiful?" Her brown eyes were wide as she looked at him, shining brightly in the candlelight, the tilt of her eyebrows pained.

He lifted his hands to cup her face. She leaned into his touch, pressing her lips to his palm, eyes lowering to follow the blue rivers of blood that shone through the marble skin. His gaze was heavy on her head.

"Pitiful…? You are… beautiful, Hermione. Beautiful and sad." He drew her face close to his and placed a lingering kiss to her forehead.

There was a sickening swoop in her gut, as if she'd plummeted downwards very suddenly, yet she felt the ground under her feet, solid and unmoving. She was not falling through the clouds, awaiting the impact that would kill her. This was happening. Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly a few times.

"Harry will save me." She managed, but her voice sounded weak even to her own ears. She wanted Harry to save her, of course she did. And she told herself that that bubble of… _something_ in her belly was just hunger. That was it; she was so hungry she was nauseous from it. The aroma of the barely touched dinner on the table was so strong she could taste it on her tongue—vibrant and savory—not dull. She was hungry for… for the food on the table, not for anything else. She wanted Harry to rescue her, she wanted to be free, and she didn't want… she didn't want whatever _this_ was.

Voldemort burst with emotion, shooting up from his chair like he'd grown out of the wood, his face suddenly much too close to hers, eyes darkly mad. Her back pressed harshly against the back of her chair as she pushed against it; she could smell his breath as it mingled with hers. He caged her to the chair with his arms.

"Harry Potter will _die_! Your boy-hero will not take you from me; he will not even manage to save _himself_—not this time!" He hissed furiously. "And when he falls, at last I will claim you, mind," his spidery fingers skittered across her forehead, "Body," his other hand coiled tightly around her bicep, "_And sssoul!_" His hand found its familiar seat around her neck. He pressed his cheek to the side of her head, feeling her shake under him.

Her terror acted as a sort of balm for his blazing temper, some of the tenseness seeping away from his body and his harsh breath softening. Hermione felt her fingertips begin to tingle with sharp pinpricks from lack of blood flow. She stared unseeingly over his shoulder into the blue darkness, soft fabric that smelled faintly of soap brushing her chin.

"I _will_ win this war, Hermione. Your faith is misplaced. I will _kill_ Harry Potter and _you_ will be my darling little Mudblood _pet_ until you _die_." Voldemort said quietly, almost affectionately. He pressed his mouth against the place where her jaw met her ear, inhaling the scent of her hair, his large hand cradling the base of her neck. The world blurred and Hermione felt tears roll swiftly and silently down her face.

When they pitter-pattered onto the shoulder of his robes he drew back, shushing her softly as his thumbs stroked her temples, so she cried into his hands until they slowed and finally stopped altogether. He bade her to eat, but it all turned to ash in her mouth, sickening her. The wine was tasteless too, and the entire display failed to draw her eye.

The only thing that did draw her eye was the lone person she shared the table with and she did not allow herself to look at him, not his tall, slender form which seemed so brittle and willowy yet was capable of such powerful, terrifying things, not the unnaturally smooth line of his face's profile, nor the long, elegant digits of his hand that seemed to be constructed of living marble; faint blue webbing veined throughout. She tried not to think of the way his red eyes glowed in the dark like the candles. She tried to forget the feel of her palm against his ribs, that strong, steady thrum that beat against her fingers, the concept that he had a heart too and it would bleed if stabbed. A heartbeat was such a human thing to have; it was inconceivable that Voldemort had one at all, much less one that was possibly capable of feeling.

It wasn't right that her thoughts centered on him; that her skin ached for the Dark Lord's possessive caress when it was possible that Harry could die tomorrow. It wasn't right. It wasn't _fair_.

'_There's no such thing as fair,_' a part of her consciousness argued, '_Especially where Voldemort is involved_.'

The Dark Lord gave a long-suffering sigh and stood, the food vanishing from the table. Hermione's hand stilled in the air, the fork she had been absent-mindedly twirling disappearing right from between her fingers mid-spin. She stared stupidly at the empty air for a moment until the light press of fingers under her chin tilted her head up.

"The final confrontation will begin at dawn." He said quietly. "You are my key to victory."

Hermione did not sleep that night.

* * *

This dress-robe was the finest yet. Dark green (crape fabric; she was told) with shining gold embroidered throughout in elegant, swirling Victorian patterns. It was even corseted; her breasts crushed into a full cleavage delicately veiled by a bit of lace, skirts and sleeves. The hair at her neck fell down in perfect ringlets; her usually untamable frizz viciously restrained. The gold that bound her hands and feet were gilded and lovely. It was not possible for even the distant onlooker to mistake them as jewelry this time; the shape was too distinct: shackles. A Leafy gold chain linked each set together. The House Elves had dressed her up - but it was Voldemort himself who added the last piece: a collar. Deceivingly delicate-looking, it almost seemed to be a choker necklace, but it clasped at the front, extending out into a gold and green braided leash. A jade snake ornament hung in the little triangular indent where her clavicles met.

She had fought when he moved to put it on her; she felt defeated in many ways—but the fight had not left her yet. She twisted and writhed away from his grasp, but in the end he had won and the collar was snapped around her throat. She had never felt so humiliated and she had not seen Voldemort look so pleased since he had presented her to his Death Eaters; freshly captured. Lacking the proper rest, her body protested the slightest movement, but the Dark Lord pulled her along with him to every errand. His snake accompanied him just as Hermione did—only willingly. To think that Voldemort had put her on the same level as Nagini was disturbing.

Words could not describe how it felt to be around people again. Hermione felt simultaneously relieved and awkward; the fact that the people were all Death Eaters only made things more difficult. Their voices were foreign to her ears. Only Bellatrix Lestrange openly glared at Hermione, but no small amount of puzzlement was aimed in her direction from the others. In Voldemort's presence, however, none dared question it. A few of the Death Eaters—remembering the speech Voldemort had given so many weeks and weeks ago—smirked arrogantly at her when the Dark Lord was not looking.

Voldemort assembled his Death Eaters before the sun even rose; faint movement could be detected on the hems of the Forbidden Forest: the Order organizing.

Voldemort stood at the front of the line on a slight crest that overlooked the Hogwarts Grounds, holding Hermione before him like a trophy on display—or perhaps a human shield. The leash was wrapped tightly around his hand, his fingers lightly brushing her neck. His other hand rested on her stomach; keeping her close. Nagini coiled tightly around their feet—its enormous head settled on Hermione's ankles.

Voldemort's forces were a black, writhing, bloodthirsty mass behind him. Growls, snarls and the occasional uncontrollable insane giggle cut through the brisk morning air. Dementors lurked in the skies above and once in a while, a flake of ice fell down far enough to sting somebody's skin. When fiery gold began to burn across the horizon, people began emerging from the forest in a ragged-robed trickle.

The Order's numbers were far too small. How could this be all that the Light had to offer for this battle? How were there so few people willing to fight the good fight?

"Look, Hermione, the _shining knight_ has come to rescue his princess from the fearsome dragon." Voldemort whispered into her ear. It was then that she saw him; causing her heart to swell in such a way she felt it would burst

_Harry_. Harry, Harry, _Harry_! Wonderful, sweet, heroic Harry! Elation rose in her, making her feel weightless. She almost ran to him—only Voldemort's presence at her back kept her from rushing forward—heedless of the dangers. She felt tears rise in her eyes, though they weren't plentiful enough to fall. Her lips trembled upward; she was so happy to see him! He looked horrid, pale and gaunt; dark stubble on his cheeks—eyes sunken with shadows. The robes he wore were clearly given to him by someone else—they were at least three sizes too wide—but they were clean, even if it _did_ look like he was wearing a potato sack. Her beaded handbag hung at his side, something silver and red sticking out of it. His expression was grim and determined, and his eyes were sharp and bright.

He had never looked so wonderful. He had never looked so noble, so brave, so handsome, so Harry… HarryHarry_Harry_—_!_

And there right beside him was Ron; tall and broad—not as thin as Harry but just as ragged—his red hair dirty but standing out like a flame nonetheless. Neville was with them too, as were Remus and the rest of the Weasleys, Hagrid, Madam Rosmerta and a bitter-looking old wizard that bore an uncanny resemblance to Professor Dumbledore. Joy touched Hermione's every nerve.

The Death Eaters jeered and howled at the emergence of the Order, but those haggard-looking people did not respond to the taunts. Determination stiffened every back: the Order meant business. If they could not win this battle, they would all die. The tension between the two sides was so potent she felt suffocated. No declarations or words were exchanged, no weighted monologues; they seemed to be mutually waiting for some decisive, flickering moment that would signal the beginnings of battle.

The sun finally tipped over the horizon, and a white-gold light fell first upon those positioned highest: Voldemort and Hermione. As her face was illuminated, Harry finally spotted her. She watched his green eyes widen, his mouth dropping open, and a myriad of emotions racing across his features: disbelief, elation, guilt, horror, anger; his mouth began to form her name…

"_Avada Kedavra!"_ Voldemort's suddenly snarled.

The spell bolted past her like a streak of green lightning. A hoarse shriek ripped itself from her throat as it rushed toward Harry, narrowly missing him as he threw himself to the side. The spring grass where he'd stood moments before was burnt black.

Voldemort roared, furious that his most opportune moment, his chance of surprise, had failed. Both sides exploded with spells, the crowds rushing at one another. Centaur arrows sprung from the Forbidden Forest like a rain of needles. Hermione yelped as the Dark Lord pulled back to vanish within the surging mass of his Death Eaters, dragging her with him by the collar. She caught a glimpse of Harry's wide-eyed face before she was forced to turn away.

Harry would chase after her—of that she had no doubt.

The Dark Lord knew it too. "Never fear, Hermione," Voldemort hissed, "I am not yet out of ideas; far from it."

Her heart jumped into her throat. The air was already full of screams. Towering over every head, Hermione caught sight of Hagrid's brother, Grawp, emerging from the forest to kick and swipe at Death Eaters as though they were pesky ants. Dozens of bright red stunners were shot his way, but they rebounded off his thick skin harmlessly, only serving to anger him and the careless strokes of his tree-trunk arms took out more and more of Voldemort's forces and a few of the Order's own.

Nagini moved up Hermione's body, settling heavily around her and Voldemort's shoulders, binding them closely together. She glanced up at the Dark Lord, but he was not looking at her, his wide eyes focused on the writhing crowd, his body taut like a snake waiting to spring out and strike. Then he stuck his arm out, moving it upward fluidly until it pointed straight up. A little black light pulsed from the tip of his wand and the Dementors moved, descending on the chaos below.

Terrified wails rose from the masses and "_Expecto Patronum!"_ echoed through the noise. Silvery mist filled the air above people's heads; smoky animal shapes racing after the soul-sucking wraiths. Despite the Patronuses, some Dementors managed to wriggle through and feast on several unfortunate persons. Above the hoods and heads of the Death Eaters Hermione could see Harry's stag Patronus galloping, tearing through the Dementors with the points of its antlers; it passed through the ranks of Death Eaters like a ghost. It was headed for Voldemort.

A snarl vibrated the Dark Lord's chest as the Patronus charged at them, and he dispelled it with a hard slash of his wand. Its smoky remnants brushed across Hermione's face, its power dispelled but not its momentum.

_"I'm coming_…"

Her eyes filled with tears; her heartbeat rising to a frantic pitter-patter.

Voldemort must have heard it too, for he hissed unpleasantly and slipped his hand away from Hermione's body to wind his fingers around the end of the leash. He strode into the crowd, Nagini draped over his shoulders as if he were some demonic Oriental deity, dragging Hermione behind him. She stumbled after him breathlessly; her neck ached. The grass was slippery with the morning's dew, and it was slowly growing slicker with the blood of the dead and dying. She shuddered, feeling her toes squelch between something hot and syrupy.

A symphony of dark spells burst from the end of Voldemort's wand as he began to cast. Bolts of shimmering green, poisonous purple, and burning red-orange struck the people surrounding him, including his Death Eaters who made the mistake of not getting out of the line of fire quickly enough. People dropped dead, collapsing with blood gushing from wounds or were burned alive and reduced to grey ash…

Voldemort's movements were… _stunning_. Hermione felt terror and awe fight for dominance inside her. She had never seen him duel before and the graceful, powerful motions of his limbs—so smooth and sinuous—had her breath fleeing her. His hands twirled with masterful precision; not a single twitch was unnecessary or wasted. The rope of her leash wound around his wrist as he jerked her to him so that she fell to her knees at his feet, blood tainting her green robes. And still she stared up at him; enchanted by the sight of him.

The Order was losing badly. They were outnumbered and outmaneuvered. Acromantulae gushed out of the forest, grappling with centaurs and dragging their unfortunate victims into the darkness. Fenrir Greyback's werewolf pack, though untransformed, was savage and blood-thirsty. They tore out throats, fed on the fallen, and killed with animalistic expression of pure elation. _Monsters_. Even wild beasts didn't hunt like that. There was no hesitation in their movements or howls; they killed because they loved to kill.

An ear-splitting battle cry cut through the air. Shock pulsated through the Death Eaters' ranks as a new group of Order members appeared from behind them. A surprise attack! It had been the order's plan all along; no wonder their numbers had seemed so small! Even from a distance, Hermione could spot Draco Malfoy—looking both elated and utterly terrified—as he hurled a brunt circle into the air with a fantastic yell. Luna, Professor McGonagall and a dozen others flew in on the backs of thestrals; cutting through the sky like Muggle fighter planes. The Death Eater's ranks tore themselves in two.

Voldemort, a snarl on his gash of a mouth, hissed something angrily to Nagini and the great serpent launched itself eagerly from his shoulders, hitting the ground with a muscular thud and it quickly vanished in the crowd, screams following in its wake. Chills shot up Hermione's spine at the memory of those enormous fangs sinking into her flesh and she nearly gagged; her shoulder giving a phantom-throb.

The Dark Lord turned back to his own battle; the momentary distraction had been enough to allow the Order to push itself strongly forward and gain a foothold in battle. The air smelt burnt from all the spells.

A masked Death Eater ran up to Voldemort, only taking enough notice of Hermione to sidestep her. He panted heavily, sweat and blood dripping down the visible portion of his chin.

"My Lord! They came from inside the castle!" The Death Eater said.

Voldemort whirled to face his minion, his flat face a mask of fury. "_What? How?"_

"W-we don't know, my Lord! We had believed we cut off all the secret passages, but…"

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

The Death Eater dropped like a stone, his mask breaking loose from his face as he hit the blood-soaked earth, revealing a young face framed by wispy golden curls, frozen in an expression of terror.

Hermione screamed and backpedaled away from the young man's hot cadaver, his dull brown eyes seeming to stare at her as though blaming her for his death. She was hardly aware of the leash dragging limply along the ground like a dead snake, of how Voldemort seemed unaware of her rapid retreat, the distance between them increasing. She pushed herself to her feet, her eyes still fixated on that fallen young man—no, _boy's_—face and ran.

The ground was hard under her feet, sending jolts up her calves and ankles with every pounding step; her breath was rapid and sharp, the air stinging her lungs until she tasted iron and her mouth felt like it was bleeding even though every bit of saliva had dried up.

The leash suddenly tangled around her ankles and she tripped as her feet suddenly failed to function. It was a hard, sloppy fall; she somersaulted twice and scraped her forearms and right cheek against the ground; her skin tearing raw and beginning to bleed. She coughed a little —the wind knocked from her—the sky spinning. There was a horrible, stabbing pain in her foot, a thousand tiny splinters that jarred her out of her blind fear. The panic receded, adrenaline leaving her limbs feeling smooth and warm. The fight or flight instinct was fading, logic taking over her brain as a slow, potent ooze.

She had run away from Voldemort! She had taken off and he hadn't even turned around to glance at her! Giddiness formed a bubble in her chest, uncomfortable and hysterical, but there wasn't time to rejoice. It was too early to celebrate her freedom. A wand, a wand, she needed a wand… a witch without a wand was helpless. She was a woodlouse in a tree full of bowtruckles and it was only a matter of time until one of them smelt blood.

Some poor person had lost his insides, the sight and smell making her gag, but she kept her wits about her, crawling on her hands and knees—to avoid agitating her injured foot and the spells chaotically flying overhead—until she found the rest of the person a good half-dozen yards away. His bloodless face was trapped in an expression of eternal surprise. She pulled his lids down over his eyes and began searching his robes, breathing hard.

No, no, this was stupid. His wand wouldn't be in his robes; he would have been holding it when he died, which meant it would be somewhere on the ground now. She patted the grass around him, but it wasn't nearby. She almost sobbed aloud but forced it down, tugged at the hair at her temples, teeth grinding. The dress-robe was soiled beyond repair, gold threads sticking out at odd angles.

'_Move on, Hermione. It'll be around here and if it isn't someone else's wand _will_ be_.'

She patted the earth, tearing up dead and bloody grass; her eyes sharp for the slightest hint of ruler-straight brown, black or even pale yellow—_there!_

An explosion shook the grounds, tearing her attention away from the black wand jutting out from the ground as she whipped around to see people and chunks of earth sent flying. A _reducto_ or perhaps _confringo_, it was hard to tell. Shrieks filled the air. Thestrals screamed, twisting in the air so that their riders fell. Hermione pulled herself in a fetal position, covering her head with her hands as debris showered over her. A body landed with a sharp yelp near her, a low groan following the harsh landing.

Hermione finally lifted her head and saw another girl had been thrown over from the explosion. The girl made a deep keening noise and rolled onto her hands and knees, coughing wetly like she was going to hack up a lung. Spit made a glimmering, trail from her bruised mouth to the ground and she bled from a thin gash above one eyebrow.

"Lavender?"

Lavender Brown looked up, her eyes fighting the haze of pain and breathlessness. Her dirty blonde hair cobwebbed across her face like cracks on porcelain.

"'Huu-Err—" she coughed. "'Er-my-nay?"

A watery smile split Hermione's cheeks, relief spreading through her like a golden flood. She scrambled to the other girl, dirt and blood pressing up under her fingernails, until she could clasp her classmate's shaking hands in her own.

"Lavender… Lavender, are you okay? You're okay! Oh, Merlin, oh, thank _Merlin_, thank _God…"_

Lavender looked at Hermione as if she'd never seen her before, as if they hadn't shared a dorm room for six years, as if Hermione was a stranger who had suddenly claimed to be there in the room while Parvati and Lavender gossiped about _Witch Weekly_, her powder-blue eyes wide and blank. Suddenly her thin, bruised little lips began to move.

"Lavender?" Hermione didn't catch what was being said.

Lavender's voice rose, her eyebrows forming a sharp, angry V. "…itch. You little bitch. You fucking traitor! I can't _believe_ you, Hermione! You _traitor_!"

What?

Wait, _what?_

"Lavender, I—"

The tip of Lavender's wand was stabbed into Hermione's stomach and with a hoarsely uttered spell she was sent flying back. She coughed as the wind was knocked from her, roaring from between clenched teeth as her injured foot was jarred. Her raw cheek and forearms cried out in pain.

'_It's just splinters! Oh, Merlin, stupid bloody splinters just have to hurt so bloody much…_'

"I never betrayed anyone, Lavender!" Hermione protested, '_except maybe myself_. _But not the Order or the DA or Harry, I definitely never betrayed anybody that counted!_'

Lavender stood up, her wand clenched tightly, pretty face crinkled into an ugly scowl.

"Liar!" The girl snarled. "I saw you! I _saw_ you standing up there with You-Know-Who, you little traitor, you little slut! How _dare_ you, how _could_ you, I thought I _knew_ you—Harry Potter is supposed to be your _best friend_ you rotten _traitor_—!" She raised her wand over her head like a war hammer, curse forming on her furious lips.

Hermione fumbled for the dead man's wand, and it burned hot and hard in her hand. Between woman and wand it was a bad match, a terrible match, but it would do. It was like riding a bicycle—wand-motions and spells came to her mind as if she'd never lost her wand, as if she hadn't gone weeks and weeks without casting a single spell, though the wand was cripplingly reluctant to work with her.

Trouble was, Hermione didn't want to hurt Lavender—they'd grown up together! They'd slept in the same room, did homework, stayed up late giggling and spoiling themselves on ice cream, Lavender had helped Hermione prepare for the Yule Ball in fourth year—but Lavender definitely wanted to hurt Hermione. A year in a school under Death Eater rule and fighting, watching people die in this battle… she hadn't managed to stay as strong as Neville and Ginny had. Hermione sensed something in Lavender had been shaken loose. She was hurt, scared and angry.

And unfortunately, even if Lavender was a mediocre duellist, Hermione was only defending. The wand didn't want to cooperate. Hermione didn't want to hurt her former roommate, but it increasingly looked as though she would not have any choice but to curse Lavender to get her to let up.

"_Stupefy!" _Lavender shrieked.

"_Protego!_" Hermione countered. The spell came out thin and sloppy despite the perfect movement and incantation, barely managing to divert Lavender's spell. She cringed. She probably would have worked better with _Bellatrix Lestrange's _wand than this untamed beast!

Lavender threw her arm back for another curse, and Hermione felt icy dread creep into her stomach as she recognized the incantation forming on the other woman's mouth.

And then suddenly Lavender Brown was gone, the sinuous, muscular coils of an enormous snake flying through the air from the side.

Lavender was crying, squealing like a dying rabbit as Nagini's deadly jaw clamped around her torso, fangs sinking deep into her chest cavity. Her pale skin was flushing purplish as black ichor visibly branched through her blood veins. She wailed, fruitlessly beating her fists against Nagini's diamond-shaped head, but the desperate motions of her arms quickly slowed and her cries quieted. Nagini's jaw convulsed, widening.

Hermione threw up.

"—mione? Hermione!"

Through her sickness, Hermione felt her heart skip, sparks of hope alighting in her skin.

Slowly she turned, eyes wide as they alighted upon beautiful, wonderful Harry Potter. His emerald eyes blazed; robes splattered with blood, wand in hand, sword hilt sticking out of the beaded purse at his side. Her wounds went numb and she unsteadily stood, favoring her uninjured foot.

"Harry," she murmured, tears spilling from her eyes again. She took a step toward him, "Harr—!" Someone sharply tugged on the leash and she choked, stopping short to scratch at the gold at her neck.

Lord Voldemort stood behind her like a lion guarding his kill. He pulled her against him, the grip of his hand so tight she was sure that it would leave a bruise in the days to come.

"Ah, Harry, at last you join us." The Dark Lord purred.

Realization set in. Hermione hadn't been able to run due to his carelessness—it had been intentional. He had _let_ her run away. He had been sure that, if left alone, eventually she would find Harry and he had been right. Harry had found her and she had led Voldemort to the Boy-Who-Lived just like a piece of bait. She thought she might be sick again.

"Let her go, Voldemort!" Harry demanded, alarm crossing his face as he took an unsteady step forward.

"I cannot do that, Harry. The girl is mine!"

Hermione couldn't hold back the little smile that quivered on the corners of her lips, tears falling from her eyes in a steady stream. "_You came_," she mouthed silently, "You came for me… _Harry_…_!_"

"Let her go!" the Boy Who Lived shouted hoarsely. "You _give her back! Give Hermione back!_"

"You are too late, Harry!" Voldemort exclaimed. "She belongs to me now."

"No! She has nothing to do with this!"

"Oh, do you really believe that? I would have to disagree. Do you really think you would have survived to be seventeen if not for Hermione, Harry? How many times has she saved your worthless skin from certain death? More than once, much more than once, Harry…"

"This is between you and me, Voldemort!" Harry snarled, brandishing his wand like a sword. "Leave Hermione out of it; she isn't involved! It's you and me! _You and me!"_

"Not hiding behind your sorry little friends anymore, Harry? My, my, this is new, such foolish bravery… but Hermione is involved, I daresay she has been involved from the moment you befriended her.

"It is your fault, you know. Everything is your fault!"

Harry's expression became stricken.

The Dark Lord continued mercilessly. "If only you had been brave enough to take Hermione's place at Christmas this would all be over now! If only you had listened to dear Hermione and not followed Bagshot's corpse straight into my trap, this would have never happened! If you had only gone straight back to the hovel where you were hiding she would never have had to sacrifice herself for such a pathetic little boy! Dear Salazar, if you had not been born your parents would never have died! Hermione had never led you astray before, had she, Harry? Have not all of her past suggestions proved to be the better path? But you did not learn did you, Harry, even after all this time? You did not _listen_. You failed dear Hermione, you _failed_ her and now I own her. She surrendered herself to me to buy you a short extension on your life. That time is up now, Harry, and… _She. Is. Mine_!"

'_It's not true! None of it is true!_' Hermione's mind wailed, but how could one deny that the Dark Lord made resounding, strong points, his words striking hard and with such dark truth? Harry staggered with the force of Voldemort's words, looking as wounded as she had ever seen him, such grief and self-loathing poisoning his green eyes!

'_Don't! Don't listen to him, Harry!_'

Voldemort pulled Hermione intimately against him, one white hand sprawling across her belly and the other weaving into her wild, tattered hair. He pulled her head to the side to expose her collared throat as if he meant to slit it, lowering his flat nose to her flesh whist maintaining eye contact with his most hated enemy. Her neck was possibly the only part of her that remained clean after all her tossing about in the blood.

"Always mine." He whispered sibilantly, something that was almost affection lacing his tone, and proceeded to extend his forked tongue and lick her from collarbone to ear. She gasped, shivering from head to toe, ice racing down her spine, which was battling with the condemning warmth curling in her gut. Every hair on her body stood on end and she cried out, weakly protesting his possessive action as her head flinchingly tilted toward his.

Harry howled. He sprinted toward them, brandishing his wand like a blade, his teeth bared. Voldemort threw Hermione to the side and she fell to the ground, hands slipping on the blood-soaked grass. Her fingers came away sticky and slightly warmed, red blood staining the underside of her arms up to her elbows. She whipped around, loosened curls springing across her vision.

Voldemort was right: Harry's anger gave him strength. He cast spells like a madman, spells that flared brightly and hurled themselves toward the Dark Lord with deadly precision. However, Voldemort had practice and precision on his side, over half a century of experience under his belt and Harry's spells, while strong, were sloppy and driven by painful, messy emotion. Skill beat out talent any day, no matter how good.

Their duel was vicious; like an unstoppable force slamming against an unmovable object. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named versus the Boy-Who-Lived.

Harry was nearly on top of Voldemort now and the Dark Lord was _allowing_ the teen to get close, a mocking smile curving his thin lips, and finally Voldemort cast his own curse, hitting Harry point-blank in the chest. Yellow flashed and Harry flew backwards; arching in the air as he fell. His eyes rolled back in his head and his limbs fanned out limply like he was a ragdoll. Watching helplessly, Hermione felt as if it took a lifetime for him to finally land on the grass, where he moaned and shivered weakly.

Voldemort laughed gleefully. "I have waited _so_ long for this! Did you really believe you could defeat me, Harry, I, the greatest sorcerer in the world? You are nothing but a pathetic, worthless little boy! Not a lifetime of preparation could enable you to defeat Lord Voldemort! You have lucked your way out of my grasp for too long. Farewell, Harry Potter!" His wand rose over his head, the incantation of the Killing Curse forming on his lips.

Absolute dread filled Hermione to the brim, horror and disbelief blending. Her mind was numb, but her body knew what to do. She scrambled to her feet and threw herself at the Dark Lord, wrapping her arms tightly around his raised one like binding snakes, holding his elbow to her breast.

"No, please!" she cried.

The incomplete green spell whirled off in a random direction as the incantation died on his tongue and his head twisted around to look at her in shock.

"What are you doing? Let go! Let go this instant!" He ordered, but she shook her head mutely, refusing to let go even as she cried.

Voldemort's chest heaved, his pupils burning a pattern on her face.

"Leave Harry alone! Kill me instead!" she sobbed.

"You would willingly die in his place? You would die for him?"

She couldn't respond with words, her entire body shaking as she minutely nodded.

"No," the Dark Lord began in a whisper. "No! I will give you everything, Hermione! Everything!" He cried, cupping her face in his white hands. She leaned into his touch, weeping.

'_But there's nothing you can give me that I want_.' Her chin trembled, her voice a weak croak. "I'd rather die."

She knew that Lord Voldemort was not capable of actual love, no matter what Harry's blood had done to him, but that did not stop her from thinking that his expression was that of a man who had his heart torn out and stomped on, and however she tried to deny it she felt her own heart crack deeply in response. His eyes shone brightly for a moment before his entire demeanor became that of deep, horrible fury.

"Then you shall die with them!" He hissed. He slapped her so hard she felt her teeth rattle and she fell to the ground beside Harry. She latched herself onto her friend, crying miserably as Harry's green eyes wandered dazedly, unseeing. He was concussed; a Y-shaped crack split one of the lenses of his glasses. She pulled herself close to him, fumbling for some feeble reassurance and comfort if these were to be her last seconds alive.

Voldemort towered over her like the Grim Reaper himself, his familiar bone-white face contorted with hatred.

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

Green light burst from his wand and, strangely, Hermione felt utter peace settle on her. For a split second she was completely calm, content even with certain death striking at her. She wasn't scared and she wasn't sad. The spell never collided with her, however. Something dark rolled on top of her and then crushed her with its weight as the Killing Curse hit its back. She still saw green.

Voldemort crowed with triumph.

Hermione screamed.

"_HARRY!"_ She screamed his name, watching his pupils dilate, her voice stressed so hard that the sound broke. "_No!_ Harry! No, no, no, Harry, no!" She ran her fingers desperately over his face, trying to rub life back into him, trying to search for some hint that proved he wasn't dead. His skin was still warm. His stubble scratched her palms.

"Harry, Harry, Harry_HarryHARRY—!_" He couldn't die. He wasn't allowed to die, damn it! She had sacrificed herself so that he could _live_, not sacrifice himself in return! He was supposed to live! The world _needed_ him; it didn't need _her_!

"No, Harry, you can't do this, don't leave me; come back to me, _please_, Harry!" She sobbed desperately, pushing against his chest so that he rolled limply off her. She sprawled herself over him, tears falling onto his still face like raindrops, but despite her pleas Harry did not rise or even so much as twitch.

Something pointy and hard was digging into her side. She went to move it away, but her fingers stilled at the touch of cool metal, lungs hiccupping. A sword. Of course! Gryffindor's sword! The night Ron had left she had realized that Gryffindor's sword, impregnated with basilisk venom, had the ability to destroy Horcruxes! Harry had found it, somehow!

The sword could destroy Horcruxes…

Hermione felt something hot begin to bubble in her gut. She gritted her teeth, tears drying up as anger took form and frothed inside her, pushing aside her grief like a tidal wave, burning so powerful she felt she might vomit from it.

Harry was dead. Her best friend in the whole world was dead. Voldemort killed him. Voldemort killed Harry! _Harry_!

She heard hissing come up from behind her, the snake's scaly middle fat with Hermione's friend, and she tightened her grip on the sword hilt. The sword could destroy Horcruxes. Nagini was a Horcrux, possibly the last one. With Nagini's death, Voldemort would be as mortal as he had been when he was a young man. If Harry didn't get to live then neither would Voldemort. Hermione closed her eyes, steadying the dark fury within her, the desire for revenge tearing at her insides. Gently, she kissed Harry on the cheek.

"I'm going with you." She murmured.

Slowly, she sat up, hiding the sword in her robes as she pulled it out of the beaded bag. Voldemort's face was contorted with wicked joy, his wand pointed upward to fuel an enormous Dark Mark in the sky. He grinned savagely at her when he felt her glare, blood-red eyes aglow. A snarl curled her lip as Nagini slithered between them to get to her master.

With a swift downward cut, Hermione Granger beheaded Nagini the Horcrux.

Voldemort's ecstatic face transformed and he howled in fury and disbelief.

"_Crucio!"_

_Pain._ Pain like she'd never known it. Pain that burned her, tore her apart, broke her, cut her and consumed her. This was Hell coming to take her. She felt as if she was bleeding from every pore, as if every nerve had been shredded apart, every bone crushed to dust, her mind was reeling, cracking under the onslaught of pain, madness trickling in at the hems of her mind—soon now, she'd be just like Neville's parents…

But the spell did not hold. It broke. Why did it break? When sense had come back to her she was choking, being hauled to her feet by the collar. The Dark Lord fisted his hands painfully in her hair, tearing out pins and dirty curls, and pressed his face so close to hers that she was blinded by crimson and ivory. His touch burned like fire.

"You Mudblood! You filthy, wretched Mudblood! You have no idea what you have done! What have you done? What have you _done_ you wretched girl!"

He dove into the deepest recesses of her mind without prelude, pulling out memories, yanking forth all she knew about his Horcruxes. Her secret revealed just when it became impossible for him to prevent disaster.

"_You knew!_" Voldemort shrieked. He clutched her head, holding her so hard that she felt as though he were crushing her skull in. "All this time, you knew! You knew my secret! How _dare_ you—How _could_ you—!"

Hermione didn't hear the spell that was cast, but Voldemort's eyes went wide open with surprise and his hands fell limply away from her face.

He fell.

He fell as though his legs had been cut out from under him.

The world seemed to pause. There was blood everywhere, deep gashes curling around his sides from his back, revealing the pale, skeletal frame that was hidden beneath his robes. His chest heaved as he gasped for breath, blood bubbling up from between his lips. At first, he started blankly at the sky before turning his gaze onto her accusingly.

The world seemed to slow.

He looked so feeble and shrunken, every inch the deformed old man he was. Was this pathetic creature really the person that had killed and put such fear into the hearts of thousands? He was so small now. So mortal, so pitiful, so… His mouth moved as though he meant to speak, but only blood came forth, starkly red against his face. This mortal, dying man was Lord Voldemort?

She was crying, she realized, but she wasn't sure why. Her chest felt strangely heavy, and she slowly descended to her knees beside the strange, broken creature.

How could he die? Even before she had known about the Horcruxes he seemed an untouchable being, someone who broke all boundaries of life and death. Despite the mission left to Harry, she had strongly doubted Voldemort could ever be killed—she had never really believed that they could win, even if she hoped that they would. Even now it seemed impossible. Her mind could hardly comprehend that this man who had been her only company for months and months would soon be…would be…

His large, white hand rose, shaking and smeared with blood, to caresses her cheek. A final farewell? Her eyes roving his face pitifully, she gently laid her hand atop his, pressing his palm to her face, feeling those sharp knuckles, the strange textured skin, watching as, somehow, he grew paler and paler. She pressed her lips to the heel of his hand, tainting her mouth with the taste of salt and iron.

'_I'm sorry. I could have begun to care for you, I think. I almost did. I-I_…'

It hurt to watch him clinging so feebly to life. She had gotten attached, in a strange way, if only enough to feel a sharp twinge of grief squeezing her compassionate heart. And then she noticed the physical pain, striking her back like a whip.

'_Oh_.'

Her grief wavered with realization. Before her eyes her good arm split open. It was like a flower blooming. Voldemort's touch was no gesture of comfort or farewell—he was stealing her life energy, transferring his wounds over to her. She watched his mirroring wound slowly shrinking, the sharp pain growing in her body and wounds came into existence all over her. His eyes burned, filled with nothing but hatred and the unyielding determination to _live_. His breathing gradually grew less strangled, the choking gurgle now a harsh rasp. A shard of silver interrupted Hermione's line of sight, the point pressing into the center of Voldemort's chest, drawing his eyes into a slow ascent to glare hatefully at its handler.

"Move away from him, Hermione." Came a man's voice.

"No…" she moaned miserably.

"Ron, would you…?"

A pair of strong hands wrapped around her middle and lifted her away. She shrieked as the connection between her and Voldemort was broken, the full weight of the partially transferred wounds hitting her. She shook, wheezing wetly, trying and failing to wriggle free as her wounds impeded her, but she felt dazed. Her cheeks were slick with salt and sweat, and she realized belatedly that she was going into shock.

"Shh, Hermione, it's okay!" A familiar, rough voice spoke into her ear. "You're safe! Everything's going to be okay!"

Except that it couldn't be okay. Nothing would be okay ever _again_, not after all that she had lived through, not when her best friend had died for her, not when a person who had been such an integral part of her life for so many years lied there like a corpse… her fingernails left deep scratches on her captor's lean muscled arms.

Despite having transferred part of his wounds to Hermione, Voldemort was still in no condition to stand or defend himself. He glared darkly up at the young man that stood over him with Gryffindor's sword in hand. They were talking.

"It's your last chance," said the man, "it's all you've got left… I've seen what you'll be otherwise… Be a man… try… Try for some remorse…"

The trouble was that the man's voice sounded like Harry, but that couldn't be, Harry was _dead_, she _saw_ him die and…

She missed Voldemort's reply. The man's shoulders slumped and he seemed to sigh, lifting the sword high over his head, gleaming silver. But he didn't bring it down; he faltered, and as he swayed on the spot, Hermione glimpsed his face and the torn expression pasted upon it.

"Harry…?"

His green eyes flickered toward her and she watched his eyes grow steely and his face harden, biting his lip as an angry red flush rose on his dirty cheeks, and with the force of his entire body he brought the Sword of Gryffindor down upon the pale tower that was Voldemort's neck…

Hermione's scream trilled hysterically. The arms that held her still kept her close, saying bittersweet _nothings_, things that didn't matter, things that were stupid and useless and _wrong_…

"The Dark Lord has been defeated!" someone exclaimed in a baritone. Harry, who stood with his arms limp as though a breeze could knock him down, was gently pushed away from the body. Hermione closed her eyes against the sight as Tom Riddle's decapitated head was lifted into the air. "Harry Potter lives again!"

Cries of disbelief melded with victorious shouts, making for a dreadful symphony of voices that drowned out Hermione's uncontrollable sobbing. And at last the dark fell.

* * *

_Author's Afterthoughts:_

_Battle scenes… been a while since I did one of those! It can't be compared to JKR, but I hope I did all right. It was definitely the hardest part of the story to write; new ideas kept coming in and things didn't want to flow right and then Stephen King and Anne Rice decided they wanted me to read them at the same time… (really weird experience; it's like mixing meds…) No Elder Wand/Hallows stuff because… well, I couldn't really find a place for it (or, well, I guess I didn't make much of a place). ::scratches back of neck sheepishly:: I'm not much of a strategist (and by that I mean at all). Still much for me to learn! I am but a young Padawan._

_I originally used Faye Dunbar instead of Lavender Brown, but it was felt that Lavender was more familiar and would have more impact on the reader. Poor Lavender always seems to get the short end of the stick in the fandom, doesn't she?_

_My favorite characters are almost always antagonists, but in the end, I have to have the good guys win. Sorry, Lord V, you know I love ya. ::dodges curses from the audience::_

_Only one chapter left. See you then!_

_~Megii _


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